Death Rides a Bicycle
by Incanto
Summary: The parody-tribute which seemed too good not to write! Join Excel Excel on a Roaring Rampage of Revenge as she tracks down the man she both loves and hates more than any other! Will she Kill Il, or will Love & Peace prevail? (Complete)
1. Prologue, Credits

Author's Note: After seeing episode twenty-three, I couldn't resist. It seemed like such a good idea, though, that I guess it's no surprise I wasn't the first to think of it – my apologies to Defectron, who seems to have already written something along these lines. Probably my version will turn out nothing like his/hers. In any case, no plagiarism of him/her and his/her work is intended.

* * *

**Prologue**

North of the city of Kobe, the hills rise in a lazy progression toward serenity, toward wild cliffs and streams like the Japan of ancient scrolls. Some peace can still be found here, even with the dense metropolis in sight – and peace was what Watanabe wanted, after a year of adventures which had been as dangerous as they were absurd. For twenty-five years, he had bemoaned his dull and undistinguished life, but now he longed for nothing more than to be dull and undistinguished. To work from eight to five and to tend his sunflowers, and to protect the fragile health of his recent bride – these were all the pleasures needed to transform the small, Japanese-style house on the side of the hill into a fabled paradise.

Watanabe served as assistant principal at Yama vocational high school, an ideal post because it required no skills beyond the scope of wearing a tie and nodding whenever the principal spoke. The principal was an elderly, forgetful man who regarded Watanabe, along with every other young man he ever happened to set eyes on, as a son. He always sought to impart his wisdom to the younger generation, and that he had no wisdom to impart never seemed to dim his zeal. Watanabe had no fonder wish than to sit in his dusty, sunlight office in the afternoon, watching the motes of dust float like angel's dandruff by the window, listening to the lifeless, wandering drone of his superior's voice.

Watanabe's wife had once been a prominent official in an organization that was now more powerful than ever before, but she also seemed to prefer the tranquility of her current life to any benefits of power. The ideological organization ACROSS now ruled much of northern Japan, and had set its sights on the Kansai region, but Ayasugi-san (whose surname Watanabe had never learned) seemed uninterested. She had fallen out with the leader of ACROSS, she had explained, over his treatment of a coworker. To Watanabe, there seemed many more pressing reasons to have abandoned ACROSS – brainwashing, arms-mongering and despotism not least among them – but he would settle for whatever circumstances had delivered his beloved to him, and he was touched that she should be so touched by such a minor incident. It was in her nature, he thought. She was a sensitive, kind and infinitely gentle person, while he was crude and ordinary and almost certainly did not deserve her; but at night, lying beside her with a tissue ready to stem the flow of blood from her fragile lips, his happiness was such that it never failed to overwhelm his doubt and fear.

Not long after they had retired to the house, Ayasugi-san had happily conceived. Her morning-sickness was cataclysmic and more than once, both she and her unborn child lingered long on death's door, but the next year she gave birth to a lively and healthy girl. During the birth, as Watanabe waited in the hall, a grave-faced nurse gently broke the news that his wife had passed away. Watanabe only smiled, and she assumed that he had been driven mad by grief; but within an hour, Ayasugi-san had recovered completely, and informed him, after wiping a persistent trail of blood away from her mouth, that she wished to name the child Excel Excel Watanabe in honor of an old acquaintance. It was an odd name for a girl, thought Watanabe, but he was prepared to yield to her in anything. The doctors had all fled screaming from the room when she returned to life, and they were able to share a quiet, happy moment in each other's company, with the newborn baby.

The four-room house with its sliding paper doors, its old-fashioned tiled roof and its miniature koi pond never knew a moment's distress until the day when, more than fours years after the 'incident' of ACROSS's ascension and Ayasugi-san's departure from its ranks, it heard the fretful creak of a bicycle climbing the mountain path.

Hyatt stood at the kitchen sink, slicing a cucumber into slivers for her daughter's afternoon snack. The curtains fluttered. She watched the sun, half-hidden behind the curve of the mountain, and listened to the distant creak of the bicycle.

Now who could be visiting?—Watanabe's friends, who had somehow found him in Kobe even though he had never given them his address, always dropped by in an executive limousine in their capacity as government officials. Watanbe's old boss, the new chief of the Japanese resistance to ACROSS's forces, favored a helicopter. They did not receive a newspaper. Who could it possibly be?

Cheered and excited by the mystery, Hyatt dried her hands and removed her apron, brushed the front of her dress, and waited for the doorbell.

* * *

"What pierced my breast was not the bullet, but his rejection. What was torn apart was not my body, but my soul."

—Excel Excel

"There is a something terrible and past all cure, when quarrels arise 'twixt those who are near and dear."

—Euripides, _Medea_

_"I, Koshi Rikdo, hereby give my permission to turn this episode of Excel Saga into a tribute to a popular American film!" (1)_

_Incanto presents_

_a La Petit Band production:_

**Death Rides a Bicycle (Shi wa Jidensha o Notte)**

**Or: Kill Il**

(Alright, everyone all together now…)

_I was five and he was six, we rode on horses made of sticks;_

_He wore black and I wore white, he would always win the fight…_

**_Starring:_**

**Excel Excel _as_ Beatrix Kiddo**

**Ilpalazzo-sama _as_ Bill**

_Bang Bang: he shot me down;_

_Bang Bang: I hit the ground;_

**Hyatt,**

**Key**

**_and_ Cosette Sara**

**_as_ The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad**

_Bang Bang: that awful sound;_

_Bang Bang…_

**Nabeshin _as_ Pai Mei**

**The Mohawk Brothers _as_ themselves**

**_and_ Menchi**

_…My ba-aby shot me down._

* * *

_Excel's preview_: "Can you _taste_ it? That's the exquisite, bitter tang of revenge, a dish best served cold over lots and lots of ice…or is that tuna belly? Anyway, if you leave it out in the sun too long, it's bound to spoil! But when it comes to revenge, my appetite is whetted, so be sure to keep tuning in and watch me bump off one by one everyone who stands in the path of me and my delicious, savory, mouth-watering revenge! Who will be the first to fall! Could it be Hatchan, who was clearly set up for it in this short introductory chapter? Only time will tell! The suspense is almost too much to bear!—Next time on Death Rides a Bicycle: "About Square." What _about_ squares? _I_ don't know, even though I read the script, so be sure to tune in next week and find out!" 

_(1) K__oshi Rikdo may not have actually said this. All elements and aspects of Excel Saga belong to either Rikdo or Shinichi Watanabe; all elements and aspects of Kill Bill belong to whoever Quentin Tarantino 'borrowed' them from._


	2. About Square

**1. About Square**

"Excel Semp—!"

Hyatt's happy exclamation was cut off by a yell of _Excel punch_!—then a fist slammed into her innocently smiling face, and her body flew to smash like a mannequin against the wall. The woman in the doorway stood, rubbing her knuckles, looking blankly down at her handiwork.

Hyatt's eyes fluttered open. She still smiled, although blood had begun to trickle from her mouth.

"Excel…sempai," she whispered. "It' so…good to see you. Please…do come in."

Her head was swimming, and she wondered if it could really be her Senior in the doorway. She had last seen Excel-sempai slowly disappearing under the desert sands, strung out by fatigue and hunger, splashed with her own blood; stopped, ruined, dead. That sight, glimpsed only briefly from a window of the moving fortress, had cut to the center of Hyatt's mild soul, moving her as few things could. It wasn't like Excel to bleed. She, Hyatt, was fragile, but Excel had been indestructible, full of violent good health. Then, too, she had doubted if it were really her Senior she was seeing, a sorry corpse slipping away under whirling sand. The Excel she saw now with her hazy vision was the Excel she remembered, blazingly alive, a human rocket—then Excel-sempai was straddling her, screaming in her ear: "Alright, where is he? _Where is he_?"

Hyatt coughed. More blood gushed from her smiling mouth, and her eyes slid shut.

A large drop of sweat formed on Excel's forehead. She knelt for a moment, gripping Hyatt's motionless body by the neck, and sighed. _I should've remembered_. Out loud, she whined: "Hatchan!—Hey, what's the big idea! You can't just drop dead. C'mo-on, at least tell me where _he_ is, huh? Or gimme a hint?"

Hyatt didn't stir, and blood stained the neck of her white dress. "_Ne_, Hatchan, come back to life so I can kill you already!" She pumped on Hyatt's chest, which only caused more blood to spurt from her mouth; and at that moment the door swung open. Excel twisted around. A young girl, with her mother's rich dark hair, stood in the doorway with a look of dull astonishment, the picture of innocence. Excel grinned meekly. Excel Excel Watanabe, four years old, waited silently for an explanation.

"Y'see…" said Excel, and stood up quickly. She stepped in front of Hyatt's body, but the larger part of it was still in plain view.

_Think, tiny brain_. _There's a way to explain to the little munchkin why Excel is standing over the blood-stained corpse of her mother, isn't there?_ A menu began to form in her mind.

1) "Your mother is sleeping."

2) "She was like this when I got here."

3) "Hey, look over there!"

Then, finally:

4) (Purge every witnesses!)

The fourth option seemed the most attractive. As she prepared to strike, though, analyzing the target's weak points, Excel's eyes met Excel Watanabe's eyes. She felt the shock of a memory. Pale blues eyes – looking meekly upward – helpless – something terrible about to happen. She hesitated.

"What's wrong with mommy?" said Excel Watanabe, tonelessly.

"Y'see," Excel said, scratching the back of her neck, "the thing is – I'm an old friend of mommy's, and – well, the thing is, I kind of killed her? I mean your mommy's sleeping! That's what I said, right? Sleeping.—Hey, look over there!"

Excel Watanabe did not look, and Excel, ready to slip away, froze with one foot up in the air. She sighed, and opened her hands.

"Okay, I guess I did kill your mom. But it was kind of an accident. But I was gonna do it anyway. But she had it coming. But I guess, well, I feel kinda bad about this, but…"

"Why did you kill my mommy?"

"I, uh, well you see, I didn't _mean_—"

"Why did you kill my mommy? I'll be all alone. Daddy's gonna be all alone. Daddy's gonna cry."

"See, well, I kinda didn't think—"

Excel Watanabe grinned. "Just kiddin'! Don' worry, mommy does that all the time. Just give her a couple minutes, and she'll wake right up, 'kay?"

Then, grinning proudly, she marched past Excel into the kitchen. A moment later Excel heard her yelling: "Hey! Where's my _snack_!"

Hyatt stirred, groaned, then muttered: "Sorry, sweetie…I'll get it right away…"

"Hatchan," Excel said crossly.

"Ah! Excel-sempai."

"Don't Excel-sempai _me_! You and I have unfinished business!"

"Unfinished…business?" Still dazed, Hyatt rubbed her head, and tried to dab at the blood quickly drying around her mouth. "Sempai?"

"I'm _not_ your Sempai! I'm here to get revenge for the horrible, horrible thing _he_ did to me, and that _you_ didn't stop, so there, and nothing's gonna stop me so you'd better tell where he is _right now_ so I can kill you! I mean for good! Not like I did just now. And – _agh_." She held her head. "I'm confused."

"Sempai…" Hyatt gently touched her shoulder.

"Don't give me any of that! Don't think I'll go easy on you just cause…cause…"

Excel leaned on the wall. There was a moment of silence. Hyatt stood with her hands clasped, looking over her Senior.

Four years, and whatever trials she had undergone in the meantime, had done little to change Excel. Her broad, open face was the same, and the small sharp tooth that sometimes protruded over her lower lip. She wore a leather jacket, though, and jeans; and to Hyatt she now looked older. The bare arms and legs of her familiar costume had been girlish, although there had been nothing girlish about the body they exposed. Now, sensibly long-sleeved in a cool Japanese March, Excel had lost some innocent quality. The same could be said for Hyatt. Her fanciful costume had been replaced by a simple white dress.

The shrill complaint came from the kitchen: "_Mo_mmy!"

"I should fix her a snack," Hyatt explained, meekly bowing her head. After a moment she added: "I could fix you some tea, Sempai, if you would like."

Excel stared at her lowered head, and didn't answer.

"You must be thirsty after cycling all the way up that hill. You shouldn't push yourself too hard."

"Alright," Excel finally whispered. "You win."

She followed Hyatt silently into the kitchen, hands in her pockets, sticking her chin out at the trappings of domesticity. It was just like Hatchan to have such a pleasant house; it made her ill. But if Hatchan had a kid, _that_ meant she must have—yuck, no way! Did she actually marry that loser who was always hanging around her?—what did it matter, though, if she was going to have her revenge on her and kill her for good. Just as soon as she'd had her tea. Because she was, now that Hatchan mentioned it, terribly thirsty.

Excel Watanabe waited truculently by the half-chopped cucumber on the cutting board; and as she and Excel stood by, Hyatt spread the cucumber slices over a bowl of rice and poured a glass of lemonade.

"Thank you, mommy!"

"Now E.E., please go take your snack into the living room and watch some television. Mommy and her friend are going to talk."

"Okay! Bye, Mommy. Bye, Mommy's friend."

"She is pretty cute," Excel said, as they watched the girl leave; then she shook her head violently. "But I don't care about _that_ kind of thing."

"She's a very nice girl," said Hyatt. "I love her very much. And I love her father."

"Yeah, well, peachy for you. While you were having such a great time, _some_ of us were…" She trailed off, slumped over on the counter.

"Yes, Sempai," Hyatt said brightly, beginning to fix the tea. "Where have you been all this time? I was very worried, even though Lord Ilpalazzo told me—"

"_Don't_—mention that name to me, _ever_. Or at least don't call him _Lord_."

"I never knew Excel-sempai to say anything like that! I thought Excel-sempai was wholly devoted to Lord Ilpalazzo, and his cause."

Excel sputtered. "Yeah!—Well, that was _before_—"

"I realize," Hyatt went on imperturbably, "that Lord Ilpalazzo treated Excel badly. I was very surprised. Hyatt never thought he would be capable of such a thing. But Lord Ilpalazzo—" she set the tea to boil, "is still Lord Ilpalazzo. Even if Hyatt herself no longer serves him."

Excel was mute. She lacked the words to express her anger, or her contempt for – _him_. It wasn't something she could afford to think about. There were so many things she _had_ to think about – how to find him, how to thwart his defenses, how best to wreak her revenge once he was helpless in front of her – without having to question, in the first place, why it was necessary. She knew the powers of her brain were limited. She had to save it for the important stuff. Besides, what did Hatchan know about anything? Excel had taught her everything she knew. Excel had taught her that Lord Ilpalazzo—_no_. That was exactly the kind of thinking she _didn't_ need.

"I suppose it's rather late for Hyatt to apologize."

"You suppose correctly."

"I realize Excel-sempai is very angry. But you have to believe that I'm very glad to see you, after so many years, and – that I never _meant_ for anything bad to happen. I never thought—"

The kettle whistled. Hyatt quickly lifted it off the burner and began to pour the tea, but the sharp noise had planted an idea in Excel's mind. What if Hyatt was sharper than she let on?—What if she couldn't be trusted? What if she still _did_ serve him, after all, and was only waiting for the right time—

"Please." Hyatt pressed the cup of tea into her hands. It was a rich black tea, and the smell was heavenly. Forgetting all thoughts of treachery, Excel lowered her lips and drank with greedy abandon, burning her tongue.

"Ilpalazzo – is good," Hyatt went on, nervously fingering her collar. "I had hoped that some day, Ilpalazzo and Excel might—"

Excel slammed the empty mug on the counter. The sound, like the report of a gun, made Hyatt jump. "Look, you and I have unfinished business, so you'd better stop talking and – _start_ talking and tell me where he is."

Hyatt lowered her eyes again. "Hyatt doesn't want Excel-sempai to hurt Ilpalazzo."

"_What_!—How can you say that!" Excel reared forward. "You saw what he did to me! You saw…" She turned away. Hyatt looked at her, her mouth slightly open, and wished that there were something she could say. "You _saw_ what he did to me. And there's no forgiving that. Ever. So you'd better tell me where he is. Or else, or else…"

"Excel-sempai should stay here with me. Hyatt remembers when she and Excel were employed at a 'difficult' high school. My husband works at a vocational school, and—"

"No!—Stop _distracting_ me. With your _tea_, and your – I'm gonna go through with it! I'm gonna – kill him!"

Hyatt gasped.

"That's right. I'm gonna _kill Ilpalazzo_!"

"The Excel-sempai that Hyatt remembers would never say such terrible things!"

"Well he killed _me_, didn't he! Or he tried to. But – it's not _that_ that hurts. I – oh – s_hut up_! No more talking! No no no! Either you tell me where he is, or I'll, I'll – kill you! Or – I was gonna kill you anyway, so – I'll kill you _worse_!"

"I understand Excel-sempai wants to get even—"

"Oh no, no, no. To get even – Even Steven – I'd have to kill _you_, go into the other room, kill your daughter – then wait for your husband to come home, and kill him. That'd be about even, Hatchan. That'd be about square."

"But Hyatt's family has done nothing to you! How could that be even?"

Excel shook her head. "_I _don't know; it sounded like a cool thing to say, alright? But I don't want to get _even_…"

"Then," Hyatt said carefully, "what is it that you want?"

Excel didn't answer.

"Ilpalazzo is a good person. So is Excel-sempai. Excel would _not_ hurt Hyatt, or Hyatt's family. Or Lord Ilpalazzo."

"You ditched him! You said it yourself! What's he to you now; why're you protecting him, Hatchan?"

"My codename is Hyatt," she said slowly. "Lord Ilpalazzo gave me that name. I once served Ilpalazzo. Ilpalazzo wants to conquer Japan. Hyatt is not interested in conquering, but Hyatt wants Ilpalazzo – and Excel-sempai – to be happy."

"You want _him_ to be happy?—After what he did?" She tried to meet Hyatt's eyes, but Hyatt looked away. "You understand, don't you? I'm not angry that he tried to kill me. That doesn't bother me. If he had ordered me, I would have cut my guts out with a sharp blade, just as the sun rose, on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea…" Her eyes began to grow misty, and she stopped herself with an angry rattle of her head. "But he didn't! He just _stood_ there and listened while I poured my tiny little heart out, and then he…

"You want me to be happy, Hatchan? Tell me where he is, how I can get to him, and I'll do it. Because I won't be happy until he's dead, dead, _dead_, and so you can't want us _both_ to be happy!"

"But I do."

Excel's eyes drifted from Hyatt's lowered head to the pot of tea, simmering at her elbow. Then it began to dawn on her. "Hey Hatchan," she said suddenly. "You haven't poured yourself any tea. How come?"

"Oh, Hyatt isn't particularly thirsty. Would Excel-sempai like another cup?"

She felt a numbness in her fingers. _Shi-it…if only I hadn't gulped it down so quick. So that's how it gonna be_, she thought. _You're not gonna _let_ me hurt him_.

"Please," said Hatchan, smiling, offering the teapot. "Don't you like the tea? It's good."

Excel pushed it away with a politic smile. "No thanks."

"Oh. Then perhaps you would like some lemonade…"

Hyatt half-turned, setting the teapot down, and reached for the door of the refrigerator. Excel hefted the large ceramic teapot and brought it down with a crack on Hyatt's defenseless head. The pot exploded in shards. Scalding tea sprayed Excel's jacket. Hyatt collapsed without whimper.

There was a moment of silence in the kitchen. In the living room, Excel could hear explosions and gunfire from the television; they had covered the sound. She still clutched the handle of the teapot, now independent of any teapot, and she let it drop.

_Sorry, Hatchan_, she thought, watching the blood pool rapidly around Hyatt's head, flowing from the mouth, the nose and the fractured skull. It would take her a while to sleep _that_ one off. But hadn't she meant to do it all along? Hatchan had had it coming, hadn't she? Even before she'd tried the trick with tea. Because – because. She couldn't afford to stop, or think. Hatchan was on _his_ side; she was the enemy.

Excel flexed her hands. So it hadn't been a _lethal_ poison; probably it had only been meant to knock her out. Anyway, there hadn't been enough of a dose to do the job in one mug. She could leave, and she would have to; she didn't want to have to explain to the little girl, again, why her mother was laid out bloodily on the floor.

* * *

Evening was setting in. The sky was a mellow red, and the hiss of cicadas rose from bushes and trees. Soon, Hyatt's husband would be returning home from work.

Straddling her bicycle, Excel tried to clear her mind. Thoughts usually flowed through her mind like water, quickly replaced by others; but Hatchan's words, and the image of her bloodied head, had lodged there like a commercial jingle.

_Ilpalazzo is a good person. So is Excel-sempai. Excel would _not_ hurt Hyatt, or Hyatt's family. Or Lord Ilpalazzo._

She had been absolutely, no-shadow-of-a-doubt one-hundred-percent right to do whatever she'd done, was doing, and meant to do, she reminded herself. A wise man had told her once…

_Weapons are the tools of violence; all decent men detest them. Weapons are the tools of fear; a decent man will avoid them except in the direst necessity, and, if compelled, will use them only with the utmost restraint. He enters a battle gravely, with sorrow and with great compassion, as if he were attending a funeral._

No-no-no-no-no. A wise man had told her once…

_When you make up your mind to a thing, no matter how foolish and ill-conceived, the important thing is to go through with it, pig-headedly, at any cost!_

There, _that_ was more like it! Nodding to herself, she balanced her weight, kicked off, and began to pedal down the mountain.

* * *

_Excel's preview_: "Well, _that_ wasn't much of a challenge, was it? I was expecting a little more lead-racing, pulse-pumping action, maybe a car chase or two! But I suspect that some of my enemies might put up a bit more of a fight, so if I intend to proceed with just my trusty fists, I might eventually find myself just a _li_-ttle outgunned!—So, I'll solve this problem in the traditional Japanese way! Silk and battleships! Silk and battleships! Well, maybe not, but lots and lots of steel is sure to be involved!—and also this guy who asked to be described as 'good with kids!' It's all coming up on the next episode of Death Rides a Bicycle: "The Man From Osaka!" Why isn't this parody following the nonchronological structure of the original movie? Who the heck knows! Tune in next time or something bad will probably happen to your family!" 

_Author's Note: The first quote that comes to Excel's mind is from the Tao Te Ching. I don't know about that second one._


	3. The Man From Osaka

**2. The Man From Osaka**

"Mommy mommy please, let's go over there, let's go let's go over _there_! C'mon, now-now-now! _Mo_mmy!" The little girl pointed frantically at a storefront across the street. The mother shaded her eyes, trying to read the sign.

"Oh, Honey, I don't know…"

"Why _not_? The sign says they have cute kittens and lots n' lots of candy! _Candy_!"

"Well, honey, it just that sounds kind of – well, _suspicious_."

"Candy! Candy!"

"We can get candy at the supermarket, honey. I don't think we ought to go in there."

She pulled sternly on her daughter's hand, leading her away through the crowd; the girl looked back with wild disappointment at the blinding pastel storefront, where the signs read:

_Uncle Shioji's House of Kittens n' Candy!_

_Cute-cute kittens! Sweet-sweet candy! _

_Free lollipops for customers under the age of twelve!_

She pouted. It was is if the storefront had been fashioned from the raw substance of her fondest dreams.

* * *

Another girl, old enough to decide for herself which stores she patronized, stopped her bicycle in front Uncle Shioji's House of Kittens n' Candy. This was the address she had gotten from Soldier of Fortune magazine – although it hardly looked like arms dealer's establishment. The pink-lettered sign was adorned with cartoon peppermints and grinning kittens' heads. Perversely, though, she shuddered. Like the little girl's mother, she had a faint but inescapable sense of wrongness.

The door's bell jangled as she stepped inside. It was a narrow, dusty space, and there were no kittens or candy in evidence anywhere. Stripped walls still held the brackets of torn-down shelves. The only light came from a bare bulb, hanging from the ceiling near the back of the room. Excel walked gingerly forward.

"Don't be shy," said a smooth male voice. "Come right on in."

Just beyond the dim pool of light, she made out the shape of man sitting at a desk. His glasses caught a gleam of the light.

"Hey, shopkeep!" she called. "The sign says kittens! But _I _don't see any kittens."

"Oh, they're in the back. Would you like to—oh." He leaned forward, seemed to get a good look at Excel, and coughed apologetically. "Excuse me, Miss," he said. "You're a very attractive young women, but I must admit, you're not exactly a part of my – how should I say this – _target demographic_."

"I'm, uh, not exactly sure what means, but anyway, I've come here for—sa-a-_ay_, just how long has this place been open?"

"Oh, about three years, give or take."

"Then how come it looks like you just moved in?"

"Whatever could you mean?"

"And where's the _candy_?"

"It's in the back, too."

"Oh, hey, can I have some? I'm – really, _really_ hungry. I've got money! Just gimme some candy, then I'll say what I came here for."

"We're – all out of candy at the moment, I'm afraid."

"Well how about kittens? I guess I could eat a kitten, if it came to—"

"We're out of kittens."

"Jeez! How you guys stay in business when you haven't got any of the stuff you say you sell—but o-o-_oh_, right! I'm not _here_ to buy candy, _or_ kittens! And the reason I haven't eaten a square meal in two-and-a-half days as I pedaled nonstop cross-country from Kobe, fighting with housecats over saucers of milk and pigeons over breadcrumbs is, I'm saving all the money I borrowed from Hatchan from the box marked 'E.E.'s college funds' so I can buy something from a man who lives in Osaka, which is why I've come here, to the city of Osaka, pedaling nonstop cross-country from Kobe so I can find a man named—" she stopped to catch her breath, then, checking the magazine clipping in her pocket, read: "Doctor Kozo Shioji."

The man behind the desk stood. When he spoke again, it was more gravely: "What do you want with Kozo Shioji?"

"Are you him? Cause I don't wanna say unless you're him."

"That depends. You're not one of those pesky Vice Squad people, are you? If so, Doctor Shioji is in the back. I can go get him if—"

"Vice Squad? No, I'm—"

"I am Doctor Kozo Shioji."

He stepped into the light. A tall, young, well-groomed man, whose opaque glasses hid his eyes, Doctor Shioji gave off an aura of menace that was only worsened when he smiled.

"Looking at you," he said, "I can see you're the type of young lady who appreciates a well-built weapon of mass destruction."

"I dunno about _mass_ destruction," said Excel, scratching her head. "Have you got anything for just killing _one_ person?"

"But of course. Step right this way, and I'll show you some of my latest projects."

"Ooh, are they in the back?"

"Not _that_ back. Stand here next to me, in front of the desk."

Doctor Shioji produced a remote control, with a single red button, from his pocket. "By the bye," he said, as Excel approached, "might I ask your name?"

"Excel Excel." Her tone was wistful, and she looked at her feet. "First name Excel, last name Excel. Or just Excel for short."

"Ah," said Shioji knowingly. "Revenge."

"Huh! How'd you know?"

"Why else would such a beautiful young woman be so distressed? You must have been cheated in love! Love is the birth of hatred, you know. Thanks to love, I do a roaring trade in mines and air-to-ground missiles."

"You think you're pretty smart, huh? Well, for your information, I'm _not_ out to get revenge on some stupid _guy_, or any – _cheated love_."

"Whatever you say. The customer is always right."

Shioji pressed the remote, and the floor gave way underneath them. They slid with a shriek of friction down a wide plastic chute, strangely like a child's slide, into darkness. Excel yelped – then, as they fell, a strange feeling of nostalgia gripped her. By the time they landed, she was on the verge of tears.

"I'm sorry," said Shioji, offering his hand. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No – s'not _that_."

"Bad memories?"

"_No_!" she shrieked – then, to distract herself, took a look around. Her eyes widened. "Whoa! Hey."

"An abandoned military hangar," Shioji explained. "Another reason why this location was ideal."

They had landed on a catwalk, part of a network extending out of sight in every direction. There were few lights; but she could make out, inside the squares the catwalks formed, the vague and enormous shapes of humanoid robots. She whistled, and the sound was swallowed by a vaster space than she could imagine.

"I don't get it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well you're out of candy and kittens, right?"

"I – yes. That's correct."

"So why not just open a store and sell _this_ stuff?"

Shioji sighed. "Alas! It was the misfortune of this young genius to be saddled with – _inclinations_, rather incompatible with his natural gifts." He waved his hand around the enormous room. "Tinkering with these childish toys is my profession, not my passion." After a moment's hesitation, looking at the grim shapes of the robots, he added: "Tell me, Miss. Wouldn't it be a more beautiful world if, instead of manufacturing implements of death, men turned their efforts to selling candy and kittens?"

"But you don't _have_ any candy. Or kittens."

"It's a matter of principles," he said, and adjusting his lab coat. "In any case, do you want to see what I have to offer or not?"

* * *

"Feast your eyes on this, the VE-6050 Pfadfinderin! I can say without any trace of ego that this is my finest work to date. If, on your journey, you should encounter Evangelion Unit One, Unit One will be crushed. _Ne_?"

Shioji turned with a sudden alarming smile to the cute young girl wearing a labcoat, whom he had introduced as his assistant.

"_Ne_!" she shrilled back, grinning.

Excel winced, without fully understanding the reason.

"Yuki-chan! Unveil the prototype!"

"Yessthir!" Yuki lisped, and pushed the large red button. Ropes whisked away the canvas which had covered the mecha. Shioji stood back, crossing his arms with a proud smirk, while Excel gaped. The VE-6050 Pfadfinderin towered over them, four times as tall as man. Yuki applauded.

Excel raised her hand. "Um, Mister Scientist, sir…"

"I understand, but don't feel as though you have to hold back when you praise me."

"I was just wonderin' – it's true that Excel's walnut-sized brain probably can't comprehend the finer points makin' robots, but – does it really have to be _pink_?"

"A natural result of combining the industry standard antirust compound with a special thickening agent designed to protect the armor from wear and tear."

"With teal highlights?"

"Those areas demarcated with teal are all related to the model's guidance systems."

"And what's with the skirt?"

"I'm very glad you asked! What so you quaintly refer to as the 'skirt' is in fact an integral part of the 6050's nigh-impenetrable body armor. Naturally, it protects the pelvic area, where the tertiary set of ground-to-air missiles are stored. You must be able see that it just wouldn't do if an enemy blow were to ignite—"

"Okay, how about the wand?"

"Nothing less than the 6050's primary mode of attack! Breech-loading firearms went the way of the crossbow, and, as the 6050 is rather lightly built for a mecha, a large beam rifle would only encumber it. That 'wand' is the state-of-the-art in long-range weaponry, capable projecting a thermal beam in excess of one thousand degrees—"

"It has hair. _Curly_ hair."

"Fine copper wire, projecting a six-thousand-watt antistatic field. Renders the model impervious to all known forms of sensory jamming."

"Those reds spots on the cheeks? They look kind of like—"

"Infrared sensors."

"And the bows?"

"Oh," said Shioji, "those are just for decoration. They're awfully pretty, don't you think?" He turned to Yuki. "_Ne_?"

"_Ne_!"

Excel had no other immediate objections. Shioji turned to her, smiling.

"So, uh…" she began slowly, and spoke more and more slowly until her voice became a squeak. "I guess if it's really all that special, it must cost a whole lot of – money?"

"Not necessarily," said Shioji. He looked away. "In fact, if you'll allow me to make a phone call, it's just possible I might be able to grant you use of the 6050 Pfadfinderin – my proudest creation, I reiterate – at no cost whatsoever."

"Ooh! Yes, please!"

"Just a moment, then."

Excel felt another wriggle of unease as Shioji, slouching his shoulders, left the room. She looked at Yuki's bright face.

"Do ya like it?" said the girl, then confided in a whisper: "I helped make it a little."

"Doctor Shioji sure seems to like – cute – things," said Excel, uncertainly.

* * *

"That's right, sir." Shioji leaned against the other side of the door, cradling the phone against his ear. "Excel Excel. First name Excel, last name Excel. Or just Excel for short. Yes, sir, I agree, it's not a particularly common name. I understand, sir. I'll keep her occupied just a little longer. Yes, sir, naturally. Did you ever doubt me…?"

* * *

_Excel's Preview:_ "Who the heck knows what darkness lurks in the heart of man, or woman, or even a teensy-weensy cute little girl who _really_ doesn't like being described as a teensy-weensy, cute little girl; just ask Section Chief Murasaki!—who, in our next episode, 'Queen of the City Council,' gives a whole new meaning to phrase _heads will roll_! It's the prelude to that inevitable symphony of carnage which is sure to up the rating to 'R' as Excel Saga asks that age-old question: _Do you know what it is to be an orphan_? I sure don't! I'm _pretty_ sure I have parents, if I can't remember seeing them in a really really long time!"

_Author's Note: According to my online dictionary, _pfadfinderin_ is the German for 'girl scout.' All mecha must have guttural-sounding German names. It's the law. Incidentally, the German for 'child molester' is _kinderschänder


	4. Queen of the City Council

_Author's Note_: Apologies to Koushun Takami for the not-so-original character introduced in this chapter. But for anyone not familiar with Mr. Takami's work, he's not some guy from Excel Saga you forgot about, he's from the novel Battle Royale – y'see, since the actress who plays Gogo Yubari, Chiaki Kuriyama, played Takako Chigusa in the movie version of Battle Royale, it seemed like…well, yeah, you get the idea.

3. Queen of the City Council

When Kabapu and Misaki arrived, they found their subject held motionless, not by bars or drugs, but by a spinning painted disk Shioji held in front of her eyes. Excel's gaze was riveted by the mysterious swirling colors, and a strand of drool had begun to work its way down her chin.

"Fascinating!" Kabapu boomed, standing in the doorway. "Is this some novel form of thought control, Doctor? I can already imagine the many applications in the management of a civilian population…"

"I would suspect," said Misaki, walking past him, "that the crux of the effect exists in the subject's mind, more so than in that device."

"Mind putting that in a little plainer language for your supervisor, Misaki?"

"She's an idiot."

"Well, Shioji?"

"I'm afraid Miss Matsuya – is correct."

"Hmm. Although when it comes to that, your average citizenry…"

Misaki put a hand on his arm. "Why not stop train of thought right there, sir."

Shioji pocketed the device; Excel immediately returned to what passed for normalcy, shaking her head, spitting and frothing. She looked rapidly around with dilated eyes.

"I – where am I? Kill…gonna kill…" Seeing Kabapu and Misaki, she leapt back. "You!—You're that _guy_! And you're that _girl_! Who, who—did the _thing_!"

"Please relax, young lady," said Kabapu gruffly, through his moustache. "We are representatives of your government."

"Also," added Misaki, "we may be, at the moment, your best friends in the world."

"I don't understand this! What're you doing here! What—" Excel shut here eyes, and a process of simplification, known in the literature as cognitive dissonance, took place. Misaki was wrong: her brain worked potently, with remarkable speed and power, to reorder the world into something it could more easily understand. She opened her eyes. "Oh, hey, it's you guys!"

"You are Miss Excel – Excel?" said Misaki. She was dressed formally, in a purple business suit, and carried a briefcase.

"Yep! And didn't you used to live, like, right next door to me? And—"

"Our past histories are irrelevant," said Misaki. She glanced around the room for a place to set her briefcase down. It was a conference room, formerly for military use, and folding chairs were established in front of a projection screen. "What matters," she said, setting her briefcase on one of the seats, "is that, at the moment, we have similar interests – or at least, our Commander tells me so."

Excel, glancing over at Kabapu, noticed that he had added a meaningless admiral's cap to his usual business suit. It looked no sillier than anything else about his appearance.

Kabapu cleared his throat. "That is correct. Miss Excel Excel, your country needs you."

"And from the look of things, you need it just as badly." Misaki glanced at Excel's twenty-two year-old, unarmed body, and Excel wilted. "Do you really expect to take on the most dangerous man in all of Japan, where Daitenzin and battalion upon battalion of the Self-Defense Force have failed?

"Well – yeah? Kind of. Hey, I _killed_ Hatchan! Twice!"

Misaki clicked her tongue. "Sit down, Miss Excel, if you would; and take a look at what we have to show you. I promise it won't take long, and then we can put our cards on the table."

Inside the briefcase was a roll of film, which she removed.

"Most dangerous man in Japan? Hey, that rhymes!"

Misaki frowned. "_Hito_ doesn't rhyme with _Nihon_."

"She must've been reading the translation," Kabapu whispered. "Proceed with the briefing, Miss Matsuya."

Excel peered at the film in Misaki's hands.

"And who the heck still uses old film like that, anyway? Shouldn't it be on a CD-ROM, or—hey, come to think of it, even 'CD-ROM' is outdated; who still says _R-O-M_? But _an_yway—"

"Shioji!" barked Kabapu. The doctor obediently held the spinning plastic disc in front of Excel's eyes until they began to glaze over, and the noise coming from her mouth slowed to a creaking halt.

"You've gotten quite a bit of mileage out of this place," Kabapu muttered to Shioji, as Misaki tinkered with the projector.

"Yes, sir. And I can't thank you enough for rezoning it – and, of course, for handling all those pesky complaints about—"

"_Oi_, you two! I'm not playing this thing twice!" Misaki yelled; and the screen had begun to display the grainy film. Excel's eyes slowly returned to normal, and she blinked.

"_Heh_? What's going on; who are these guys?"—even as she spoke, though, something in the film caught her eye. A dark shape in the background: tall, broad-shouldered, silent. Her fists clenched. Shioji, seeing her, was alarmed; a different and entirely more capable person seemed to have replaced her for a moment.

"Pay no attention to the man in the shadows," said Misaki. "It's that little girl in the foreground you should be concerned with." Then, pausing the tape, she explained: "As you may or may not be aware, a certain individual, who may as well remain unnamed for the moment, recently extended his dominion as far south as our capitol, Tokyo. This footage, captured by our esteemed scientist's miniature spy cameras,"—she put out a hand to Shioji, who smiled—"dates from shortly after that unfortunate conquest – to be specific, five or six weeks ago."

The static image on the screen showed three individuals, not including the ominous male shadow behind them – a middle-aged man; a younger man; and a petite, smiling, pink-haired and pig-tailed girl.

Excel's eyes widened. "Oh, Cosette-chan!—And is that the mayor?"

"Indeed," said Kabapu. "My treacherous former subordinate threw in his lot with the conquerors, not long after ACROSS's flag was raised. Look at the little bastard. Smiling like that. Makes the blood boil. Makes the—"

"Please, sir," said Misaki. "As you may imagine, Miss Excel, the mayor is of little consequence. This meeting has been convened to announce ACROSS's dominance over the city in the eleventh day of urban warfare, and—" the first touch of real bitterness crept into her tone of cold civility—"to give the Tokyo City Council a chance to grovel at Lord Ilpalazzo's feet."

"_Hei_—" The word almost escaped Excel's mouth; but as her arm began to shoot up involuntarily, she seized it, digging her fingers into the flesh.

"Are you quite alright, Miss?" said Shioji.

Excel gritted her teeth. "Fine. Go on."

Misaki, stepping forward, pointed at the young girl. "I understand you're already acquainted with Miss Cosette Sara?"

"Well, sure! She's the Young Girl who Lives in Our Neighborhood, after all."

Kabapu grimaced. "If that's all you know about her, what you're about to see might come as a shock."

"That's okay," Excel said, quietly. "I'm used to that kind of thing."

Misaki unpaused the film. The static Cosette Sara leapt to life, smiling and bowing in her adorable Chinese suit, her pigtails bobbing.

"Thank you, Mister Tokyo Mayor!" she trilled. "That was a wonderful speech! Clap-clap!" Others applauded, including the familiar mayor of F City, but the young man on Cosette's right was silent. Misaki had not introduced him. He was hot, Excel thought, you could say that much. Pure blue eyes and impeccable hair, swept back; an eerily perfect face; a school uniform.

"Now," Cosette went on, "since you have all been such good sports, I think you all deserve a nice big _reward_!" She turned to the man "K-san?"

Misaki paused.

"The man on the right," she said, pointing, "is the former chief of the largest Tokyo city Yakuza clan. When ACROSS invaded, his cooperation was essential to a quick transfer of power – and in exchange, he was handed control of every betting parlor, brothel and soapland in the city. A shrewd move, from a very shrewd man."

"What's his name?"

"Nobody knows, except that his initials are K and K – they call him K.K., or K-san. I understand he prefers the latter. He and Cosette have a lot in common. At nineteen, he's the youngest chief a major Yakuza clan has ever had – and at nine, Cosette is by far the youngest mayor the city of Tokyo has ever had."

"Mayor?"

"Watch."

She unpaused. K-san, with his dazzling eyes set in an expressionless face, reached into his school coat and produced a bundle of thousand-yen bills. The camera changed its angle – the members of the city council lunged forward like dogs as K-san pitched the notes into their midst. The angle changed back: over the sound of the snarling men, Cosette still smiled, K-san remained expressionless.

"Don't knock yourselves out, guys!" Cosette said playfully. "Think of your age!"

Misaki paused again. "I'm going to fast-forward. I'm afraid I don't enjoy the sight of once-respectable city officials making asses of themselves."

Kabapu sniffed sentimentally. "Me neither, Miss Matsuya."

"When's it gonna get _good_?" Excel whined. "You said it was gonna be shocking!"

"Coming up…" said Misaki, then a mist of blood suddenly filled the fast-forwarding image. "Ooh, missed it." She rewound, and a man's head reattached itself to his body; blood flowed backwards into his neck. Misaki hit play.

"Murasaki-san," Cosette said, sweetly. "Whatever do you mean?"

The camera angle changed to show one of the officials, a man with sagging cheeks and thinning hair, his spectacles held together in the middle by a piece of tape. His mouth was set indignantly.

"That's Section Chief Ichiro Murasaki," Shioji whispered.

"I refer," said Section Chief Ichiro Murasaki in a desperate, reedy voice, his jowls vibrating, "to the perversion of this illustrious council – at the hands of a fascist madman, and his ridiculous flunkies!"

The other council members shouted from offscreen: "Shut up!—Don't rock the boat, Murasaki you fool!"

But Murasaki went on, his voice rising to a pitch of emotion: "My father, and my grandfather before me, served as Section Chief on his council, and while you laugh and bray like assess, they weep in the afterlife!—that a contemptible, iron-fisted tyrant should not only conquer this city, but then choose to show his contempt for us by appointing as our new mayor – a _nine_-year-old, barely out of _diapers_!"

There was a whistling sound. Murasaki's head erupted like a watermelon on the beach in summertime. Blood spattered the camera, and the angle changed.

Cosette still grinned, although a spot of blood had marked her forehead. Suspended from her index finger, a banana-yellow yo-yo bobbed up and down. Two circular blades, bright with Murasaki's gore, surrounded either of its sections. The room was silent except for the hiss of the yo-yo as it rose and fell, and a dripping sound from offscreen. Then one of the council members let out of a moan of terror.

Cosette twitched her finger, and the yo-yo's blades retracted. She slipped it into her pocket and clapped her hands. "Well," she said briskly, "that might have been a bit much, but I _don't_ think that was a very nice thing for Mister Murasaki to say, now was it?"

The camera showed the council members. Slowly, as one, they shook their heads.

The camera showed Cosette again. K-san, glancing at his reflection in the metal table, brushed at a fleck of blood in his hair.

"Now, I'm gonna say something, and it's gonna be _super important_ so I think I better say it in English!"

"Ooh!" said Excel, raising her hand. "I like English!"

Misaki paused this tape. "This may be as good a time as any to review Miss Cosette's history," she said. "The girl was born to an American soldier – to an American man, hence Sara, and French tourist girl, hence Cosette. This half-American, half-French army brat made her first acquaintance with death at the age of four – when she witnessed the murder of her father and the fatal wounding of her mother at the hands of Japan's most ruthless Yakuza boss: 'Bossu' Matsumoto."

"I, uh, kind of already know this story," said Excel. "It was in Episode Se—"

"_Stop_!" Kabapu thundered. "I will _not_ tolerate any breaking of the fourth wall! The thread of plausibility connecting events in this story is thin enough as is without any gratuitous self-aware humor, so I demand that you stop immediately!"

"But you just—"

"_Immediately_!"

"So you know," Misaki cut in quickly, "that her mother passed away, that Cosette was forced to work as an hitman for Matsumoto, that by the age of seven she was already one of the best-known female assassins in Japan…"

Excel waved her hand. "Yeah, yeah. Yep."

"…and how, at the age of the eight, she got her revenge."

"Ooh! This is new."

"Alright," said Misaki. "This is the story. Fortunately for Cosette, Boss Matsumoto—" she paused for dramatic effect—"was a pedophile."

There was a brief silence.

"Pardon me, Miss Matsuya," said Shioji, "but are you looking in my general direction for any particular reason?"

She cleared her throat. "Not at all, _youpervert_."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just something stuck in my—I apologize. Let's get on with the briefing. As I was saying, Boss Matsumoto was a pedophile. Cosette was able to gain access to his – _private_ chambers, and dispatch him."

"Wait," said Excel, scratching her head. "But in that case, how come she's still going around _thwap_ping off people's heads and stuff?"

Misaki shrugged. "Apparently the act of revenge wasn't as redemptive as she might have expected. As you can see—" she pointed at the still, smiling face on the screen—"that isn't a normal, healthy human being. If there ever was a child within Cosette Sara, that child died long ago."

"So all this is basically a really long way of explaining why English is Cosette's native language?" said Excel.

"Basically, yes."

Misaki unpaused the tape.

"_As your leader_," Cosette began, while the unctuous F City mayor translated. When she spoke English – precisely, smoothly – she suddenly sounded far from nine years old. "I encourage you from time to time, and always in a respectful manner, to question my logic! If you're unconvinced a particular plan of action I've decided is the wisest, tell me so!—but allow me to convince you, and I promise you right here and now, no subject will ever be taboo!"

She paused.

"Except, of course, the subject which was just under discussion.

"The price you pay – for bringing up either my sponsorship or my age as a negative is – _I collect your fuckin' head_."

She suddenly lifted a scrap of greasy dark matter off the table; Excel realized it was a piece of Section Chief Murasaki's scalp. Cosette held it over her head as she screamed, like a child throwing a tantrum: "_Just like this fucker here_!—Now if _any_ of you sons of bitches – got _anything else _to say – _now's the fuckin' time to say it_!"

There was another pause.

Cosette smiled again, and said pleasantly: "I didn't think so."

She let the scrap of hair float to the ground.

"This meeting is adjourned," she said in Japanese.

Misaki stopped the tape.

"Not pretty, is it?"

Excel swallowed.

"So you see," Kabapu took over, "if you intend to kill Lord Ilpalazzo himself, as we assume…"

Excel nodded vehemently.

"…your task may be far more difficult than you imagined. And all this is to say nothing of Ilpalazzo's own combat abilities, which are nothing short of superhuman. You don't even want to _see_ what he did to our beloved Ropponmatsus. Cosette is Ilpalazzo's second-in-command—"

"_Second-in-command_!" shrieked Excel. "Why that little hussy! What's he think he's _doing_, replacing _me_ with a model like—" She caught herself, looked to the side, and huffed. "Not that _I_ care! See if I care! So what!"

Kabapu cleared his throat. "I have no doubt you don't care in the least. As I believed I was saying, to get to Ilpalazzo, you would have to go through Miss Cosette; and to get to Miss Cosette, you would have to go through K-san."

Excel stroked her chin. "So…Cosette-chan has that bladed yo-yo thingy; what about K-san? What's his thing?"

"As I said," said Misaki, "he and Cosette have a great deal in common. Like his new boss, K-san, while extremely intelligent, seems to lack all human feeling. That's why some call him the Tin Man."

"Tin Man?"

"That's one nickname; another, more disturbing one is _Typewriter_."

"_Taipuwaita_?" Excel pronounced, awkwardly.

"That's correct. Why? Because apparently his weapon of choice, an Ingram submachine gun, sounds something like a typewriter. I wouldn't know firsthand – but if I did, I doubt I'd be standing here."

"That's…not good?"

"No," said Kabapu roughly, "it isn't. But there is hope. Shioji must have showed you his latest pinnacle of weapons technology. With the destructive power of the VE-6050 Pfadfinderin, and your own, ah, _considerable_ enthusiasm, there may yet be hope of overcoming Ilpalazzo's forces – of doom!" He glanced quickly at Misaki. "What did you think of that 'of doom?' I'm thinking of working that into my rhetoric, you know, little by little."

"I'm afraid it seemed extraneous," said Misaki. "However, Excel-san, my supervisor is correct. The plan is simple. We will provide you with use of the 6050, as well as any other weapons in our arsenal we can spare. Then, utilizing the full strength of our forces – though I doubt you'll appreciate the sacrifice – we can provide you with a beachhead into Tokyo, by launching a diversionary attack."

Excel raised her hand.

"Yes?"

"Um…couldja maybe put that in smaller words, please?"

"Stick with us," said Shioji, "and we can get you to Lord Ilpalazzo."

"Yeah! Now you're talkin'!"

Misaki spoke again. "According to our reconnaissance, Lord Ilpalazzo will be dining tomorrow night at a well-known establishment in Tokyo – known as The House of Blue Leaves."

* * *

_Excel's preview_: "Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a poor and paltry player who—hey, did I fool ya, sounding smart there for a second? Huh? _Huh_? Anyway, if death is a ripe tomato, then in our next episode we're makin' salsa! There's also music, dancing and two really _really_ cute guys, so bring some popcorn, bring a friend, come one, come all, to Death Rides a Bicycle's next chapter, "Tear the b&# apart!"—Jeez, I hope all those random symbols don't mean _me_."

_Author's Note_: I feel like the story should settle into a more even groove after this chapter. It's hard to balance the serious and comedic elements – even the humor in KB is more situational than gag-based – and it's hard as _hell_ to write Excel's dialogue. Although it's disturbingly easy to write her previews…


	5. Blue

_Musical notes_: The first song that Key sings isn't that Eiffel 65 song from like five years ago; it's one that the 5-6-7-8's are actually singing in the film.

His second song is the theme from KB's closing credits.

_Fi_nally, a good companion to this chapter is Ennio Morricone's Death Rides a Horse, which is of course where the title comes from, but it isn't on either of the soundtracks – it's the music that plays when the Bride calls out O-Ren and lops off Sophie's arm. Track it down if you can; it's a _really_ damn cool arrangement.

4. "Tear the b&# apart!"

K-san, or K.K., or the Tin Man, leaned against the door of the limousine, looking out at the Tokyo night. The bottom of the sea must look something like this, he thought: darkness and gaudy lights, coming and going in the distance, danger under the guise of obscene amusement; the wriggling arms and legs, the dripping fluids, the clash of change from a slot machine.

His new employer paid well, but K-san felt an attachment to him beyond the bounds of duty. It was something the man had said: _This world is corrupt_. It was a sentiment K-san appreciated. People lived and died without a single thought. It was abrupt, wheeling and senseless, like a volley of firecrackers; then the darkness.

"K-kun!" Cosette gripped his arm.

He recoiled. "Stop doing that."

"Aw, is little K-kun a little _grumpy_?"

He wondered if he was experiencing something similar to what other people called 'irritation.' Pain meant little to him, but he couldn't deny that he would prefer the little girl, whose life he found himself charged with protecting, to ride in a separate limousine. He couldn't understand why she clung to him, and it was troublesome.

"Cosette likes K-kun _so_-o much," Cosette sang. "K-kun and Cosette are gonna have a _good_ time tonight, and K-kun's gonna feel all better! Smile, K-kun!"

K-san glanced at her. "Is that an order?"

"Don't you _ever_ smile?"

"This world is corrupt," said K-san, and smiled.

Cosette sat back, and looked out the opposite window. The Tokyo skyline was dotted with neon fire, blinking and revolving in wheels. The car sped on, leaving the world in the dust.

"Why don't you like me, K-san?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Why don't you _like_ me?"

"I don't understand. Are you saying I haven't been doing my job?"

Cosette swung her legs. K-san found it difficult to pinpoint her exact mental age – at times she could seem extremely childish, at times older than he was. "K-kun's all I've really got in the world," Cosette said softly. "If I didn't have K-kun, I'd—"

"Human attachments are meaningless," he said, matter-of-factly. "Pretty soon you're dead, and then what have you got?"

"But we see your loved ones again…on the other side of the river," Cosette almost whispered.

"The Sanzu?—Have you seen it?"

"Well, yes, but – I guess it could've been sunstroke."

"I only believe what I can see with my eyes," said K-san. "Touch, taste, hear – or feel. Since I've never felt 'love,' I don't see any reason to believe it exists. And when I close my eyes – none of this might as well exist. Do you see what I'm saying?"

Cosette crossed her arms. "Well _I _think you're just being grumpy."

"Tell me. What did you feel, when you killed the man who killed you parents?"

Cosette's eyes seemed to stare inward. For a moment, they had the look of buttons sown onto the face of a cloth doll. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing at all."

"_Nothing_. You see?"

There was a silence. Around the car, K-san's yakuza cohorts flitted in and out of sight on their motorcycles. No sound penetrated the dim limousine interior. Somewhere ahead in the darkness, Lord Ilpalazzo was alone in his own car with his thoughts, whatever thoughts a man of his infinite powers might entertain.

What moved K-san to speak was not, in fact, a cruel impulse, but what seemed to him like a generous one. "I think you'd be happier if you just faced facts," he said to Cosette. "You're never going to see your parents again. They're dead."

Cosette didn't answer. When he looked at her, her expression was stony, and she looked away.

"What?" he said, in perfect innocence. "Was it something I said?"

* * *

Excel pedaled hard, but even her fresh young legs were no match for the limousines and state-of-the-art Suzuki motorcycles. More and more, as they left the highway and wound their way down through the dense urban jungle of Roppongi, she was losing ground. The lightweight frame of the bicycle shuddered underneath her. She grunted in frustration and reflected, also, that she looked like a dork in her bulky purple helmet, clingy pants and kneepads. There was something to be said for efficiency. Something, also, to be said for style. With the money she had saved from Shioji's gift, she could have rented a motorcycle, instead buying twenty-two pounds of Kobe beef – although that precious store of energy had been just as essential to her mission.

Just when it seemed like the limousines would slip out of sight along a winding street, they came to a stop. Excel caught up in a furious burst of speed, crowing triumph, and drew level with the lead limousine at the edge of the crosswalk. The effort almost killed her. Catching her breath in heaving gasps, she looked around, and happened to glance through the window of the limousine.

The sight of his face, after so many, years, almost killed her again. Her legs trembled; the entire bicycle rattled. What stung more, though, than the sight of him, was that he didn't seem to notice her. He stared implacably forward, like man made out of metal or stone. He might as well have been a decoy. Lord Ilpalazzo. Outside the limousine, on the other side of the glass, Excel felt herself shrinking away to nothing. Then the world flashed red and she imagined sinking her hands into his arrogant neck, _making_ him see, making him notice—

Even as her vision went red, the light turned green. The limousine took off with a roar – leaving her behind, as always.

The silence persisted, and K-san guessed that lighter conversation was called for. As politely as he could, he asked Cosette: "Excuse me, ma'am. What was the name of that restaurant we were dining at, again?"

"The House of Blue Leaves," said Cosette, dully.

"The House of Blue Leaves," K-san repeated. It had an unaccountably pleasing sound. "Blue," he said quietly, looking forward with his eyes half-lidded. "Blue, blue, blue…"

The singer writhed like an epileptic snake, shouting into the microphone his nearly-incomprehensible English lyrics: "_I'm blu-u-u-u-ue, doobi-doobi-doobi_…"

The band, three men dressed in strange bird costumes, played with ferocious energy; the drummer thrashed his sticks, the rhythm guitarist rolled his hips around, making love to his instrument.

"_Blu-u-ue, blu-u-u-u-ue_…"

Dressed in the most modern and obscenely revealing clothes, the singer had the body of an ancient Greek bronze. His shirt, resembling a bondage harness, cut over slabs of wastefully articulated muscle. Teenaged girls lifted their arms to him from the crowd; he wailed with eyes shut, paying no attention.

Excel gave him a passing glance as she entered; but she had more important things to worry about, she quickly reminded herself, than virile-looking, hunky rock musicians wearing next to nothing.

"_Blue, blue, blu-u-ue_…"

She spotted them on the second floor: a cluster of men in dark suits, a young girl in a Chinese dress, a lanky young man in a school uniform – and a broad-shouldered man in flowing cape. All of them were alike in their inexpressive features. Even as she caught sight of them, though, two groveling hostesses ushered them into a private dining room, and the paper door slid shut behind them. Excel cursed.

Still wearing her kneepads and carrying her helmet under her arm, she walked out over the dance floor of the House of Blue Leaves. It was a bright, high-ceilinged room in the traditional Japanese style; everywhere the contemporary flirted with the ancient. A small but enthusiastic crowd performed outdated American dance moves by the stage. Excel's legs burned from the long ride, and her butt ached. She was at a loss.

"_A fortuneteller told me that my love with you was through_," the singer moaned.

Kneading her lower back, Excel crossed over to the bar.

"Hey, liquorman! Gimme something hard?"

The bartender eyed her skeptically.

"May I see some I.D., Miss?"

Excel stared at him, her eyes bloodshot with thoughts of revenge, her hair windswept from highway cycling. "I didn't say _sell_ me one. I said _give_ me one."

The man lowered his eyes. "Of course, Miss. Right away."

The consumption of liquor was immoral, and a primary tool in the of the subjugation of the lower classes, Lord Ilpalazzo had taught her. Well, she'd show _him_. As she waited, leaning back on the bar, her eyes drifted again toward the writhing singer.

"_I hope that she was wrong cause you've been gone too long from home_…"

There was something familiar about him, she decided.

* * *

Eighteen-year-old Miki, one of K-san's bodyguards, was telling a joke. It involved household cleaning products and impossible sexual acrobatics. Cosette turned away, annoyed, and her eyes fell on Lord Ilpalazzo.

The Commander sat back from the table with has hands folded in his lap, watching his underlings laugh and carouse. He never smiled. He almost never spoke, except to issue orders, and it was impossible to speak to him. It went beyond the usual affectations of power; he had cut a part of himself off from the world. Even now, as Cosette started at him, he didn't meet her eyes.

_What about you, Ilpalazzo-sama_? she thought. _What did _you_ feel when you conquered F-city_? _F-prefecture_? _Hokkaido_? She couldn't believe he'd felt nothing. How could a man accomplish such feats unless he was driven by some incredible passion? But she suspected that it was true; K-san was right. To all appearances, Lord Ilpalazzo – like K-san, like herself – was not enjoying himself. The antics of his subordinates, the premium sushi dinner, the beautiful establishment itself – all meant absolutely nothing.

She looked at K-san, and a sudden thought came to her: _It's too late for all of us_. She shook her head; what was _that_ supposed to mean? She was rich and powerful and feared, Lord Ilpalazzo more so. How did all that amount to nothing?

* * *

Yes, familiar…

Excel's heart suddenly skipped a beat. The man had been singing with his eyes closed, but when the song was over, he opened them suddenly and met her gaze. She felt her legs losing their grip on the barstool. He was looking at her, her, her, with his sizzling blue eyes, and he was _smiling_.

She shook her head. There was no mistaking it, though, he was looking straight at her, and the crowd had begun to look in her direction too. She pointed at her face – _watashi_?

"Young lady," said the singer, in his smooth deep voice, through the microphone so that the entire restaurant could hear. Heads turned. Eyes stared. She sat with hand on her bicycle helmet, grinning uneasily.

_So much for deep cover_, she thought. _Deep_…_covers_…no! She was on a mission.

"That look in your eyes," said the singer. "Please!—Stand up, let me get a better look at you! To simply _glimpse_ that passion is like a balm on this poor rose-pricked soul!"

Excel got awkwardly to her feet.

"Eh heh…perhaps there's been a mistake? Excel is just a – humble shopgirl – from the shops."

"Oh, there has been no mistake, I assure you…" He leaned nearly off the stage, peering acutely into her face. "Ah! _Magnificat_!—Ladies and gentlemen, if you will direct your intention – allow me to present to you a rare but glorious spectacle! Behold, a young lady utterly, madly, _violently_ in love!"

Excel looked blankly back at him.

"…love?" she said, in a small voice.

"Yes." His crushed-rose lips smiled. "Love."

"Are you – are you like, completely _sure_?"

"Ah, ladies and gentlemen, I can feel it!—Inspiration, running like morphine through my veins! Please, gentle lady, allow me to present this humble Spanish ballad as a tribute to the glory of your love!"

Excel sank back down on the stool, her cheeks bright red. She was on an epic quest of revenge, and she had not been so embarrassed since the time in Junior High when Ken Miyamoto had tripped and tried to look up her skirt.

"Boys!" the singer called, snapping his fingers. "The _Malaguena Salerosa_!"

* * *

"You have to say yes, yes, yes, no matter what selfish demands they make!" said the proprietress, moving at a steady clip on her high heels.

"But they demand ridiculous things…!" the waiter complained, balancing a tray of beer bottles as he tried to keep pace with her.

"Shut up! Didn't you hear what happened to Ichiro Murasaki? Do you want to get your head chopped off?"

"No, I don't want that…!"

They reached the door of the private dining room. Inside, yakuza toughs, both male and female, lounged in ridiculous attitudes with their arms and heads on pillows. Only their chiefs, the two men and the little girl, kept respectable postures.

"Hey!" yelled one of the young men, pointing at the waiter. "You know who _you_ like?"

The waiter, in his yellow and black-striped kimono, stammered that he didn't know.

"Charlie Brown-chan!"

Laughter and applause erupted at Miki's wit.

"Yes," simpered the proprietress, clapping her hands, "he _does_ look like Charlie Brown…"

* * *

There was a drum roll, and the band struck up a Latin rhythm. The singer began, his Spanish gorgeous and silvery, far more fluent than his English:

_Que bonitos ojos tienes,  
Debajo de esas dos cejas,  
Debajo de esas dos cejas,  
Que bonitos ojos tienes…_

Then, as the guitar played a delicate phrase, he whispered the translation, looking directly at Excel: "_What pretty eyes you have, under those two eyebrows_…"

_Malaguena!—salerosa…__  
Besar tus labios quisiera,  
Besar tus labios quisiera,  
Malaguena Salerosa…  
Y decirte…nina hermosa…_

"_And telling you, beautiful girl… _

That you are pretty and magical,  
That you are pretty and magical,  
As the innocence of a rose…"

_

* * *

_

K-san was counting bullets. Cosette watched as he lined them up on the edge of the table, one by one, his fingers moving precisely. Small Ingram bullets, like a cat's teeth. Hundreds of them could be fired in seconds, each one lethal, and he handled them as casually as dominoes.

_

* * *

_

"_Que eres li-_in"the man sang, and held the note until Excel felt her own lungs ache, then rushed headlong into the final verse: "_Da y hechicera, que eres linda y hechicera, como el candor de una rosa…y decirte…nina hermosa…_"

Slowly, regretfully, the music swelled to a close, and the man stood in a posture of desolate reflection. Slowly, he opened his eyes again. Excel felt a shock almost as great as when he had first looked at her.

She recognized him. And, the wily bastard, he must have recognized her as well.

"ACROSS Special Operative – codename Key," she whispered.

He smiled more handsomely than ever. "Correct,_ mi corazon_," he said. "Former Special Operative Excel."

The crowed looked on, bewildered. Key set his microphone carefully back on its stand, then turned and bellowed up at the second-floor balcony: "Lord Ilpalazzo!—Your most esteemed guest has arrived!"

Excel was on her feet, bicycle helmet in hand. Her heart fell through her boots. Not at the trickery – this was as good a way as any to draw her quarry into the open – but at the thought that she would see him, face-to-face, and he would have to look at her now.

The paper door slid open. The boy in the school coat came out first, glancing at Excel without interest, and his cohorts followed. They stood in rank along the railing. Finally, Cosette emerged, and—

_He_ came out and stood behind them, taller than any of them. There was something like a ghost about his presence; he stood there behind them in his grays and faded purples, silent, unsmiling. She could hardly be sure he was really there.

She remembered. He had looked just like that, on that day four years ago. Standing so high above her. Was he even looking at her?—She couldn't tell.

"What is _she_ doing here?" Cosette said icily, leaning over the railing.

"She's come to kill you," said Key. "I can see it in her eyes. Ah, _bravo_!"

There was a moment's total silence, then the crowd screamed as one. The dance floor emptied in a minute; customers pushed and jostled as they clogged the exits. Cries of: "Kill!—He said kill!" rang off the walls. Excel stepped forward. Now there was no one between her and her enemy – except, of course, for the heavily-armed yakuza, their steel-eyed lieutenant and one very psychotic little assassin. Not to mention Key…

"Pardon me, sir," said the musician, "but I'm afraid I must bow out."

Without a downward glance, Ilpalazzo nodded.

Key winked at Excel, saying with a flourish: "Someday, somewhere, I know we'll meet again, _mi corazon_…" He snapped his fingers. The drummer pressed a button, and the entire band vanished in an eruption of stage smoke.

Excel was left coughing, staring up at the balcony.

"Should I take care of her?" said Cosette, looking to Ilpalazzo. He didn't answer.

Balling her fists, Excel yelled up at him: "Lord Ilpalazzo! _Ilpalazzo_!"

He still gave no sign he had heard either one of them.

"Lord Ilpalazzo! You and I have—_look at me_! Don't you _dare_ not look at me! Excel came all this way and I pedaled and pedaled and I killed Hatchan twice and she almost poisoned me and I went to Osaka and this kind of creepy guy gave me a giant robot and then there was a guy with a moustache with the ends pointing up and—you _have_ to look at me! You can't just—Lord Ilpalazzo!"

He turned his back, his cloak flaring out, and walked back through the doorway.

Excel sank down on her knees, still looking up. "Lord Ilpalazzo…"

"Whiny little drama queen, aren't you?" said Cosette.

K-san reached into his school coat. "Shall I take care of her, ma'am?"

Cosette smiled. "Fire at will."

Still on her knees, Excel didn't hear the command, but she heard the sound that followed. If not for Misaki's warning, she would have indeed assumed that someone in a nearby room had begun to pound on the keys of an old typewriter.

K-san fired down with his arm straight out, the small, stubby machinegun rattling, sending out volley on whistling volley of tiny deadly shells, as easily as he might have poured out a cup of tea.

There was not even time to run. Excel cowered, clapping her bicycle helmet over her head. The floorboards cracked; a cloud of wood dust filled the air; the Ingram clicked.

_He shot his six_, it would have been said of a cowboy; K-san had shot his one hundred. He let barrel drop.

"Nothing at all," he muttered.

The dust began to clear.

Cosette caught her breath. "Impossible!"

Excel still cowered, unharmed, the floor bullet-eaten all around her; smoke curled up from her helmet.

Cosette pounded the railing. "_Baka_! Didn't you see she was wearing her protective helmet? Helmets reduce the risk of fatal accidents by nearly ninety percent!"

"That's right!" said Excel, leaping to her feet. "Just remember, kids, wear a helmet and you're always safe!" She pointed at Cosette: "Now, Excel will defeat you, sub-boss, and your random underlings too!"

K-san stared in disbelief.

"Who – who are you calling a _sub-boss_!" shrieked Cosette. She glanced furiously around. "What are you waiting for, random underlings?—_Tear the bitch apart_!"

"But ma'am!" Miki gestured helplessly with his handgun. "What are we supposed to _do_ to her?"

"Kick, punch, whatever! There are _six_ of you! She's an unarmed girl!"

"Aye-aye, ma'am!"

They others rushed down the stairs. Assuming karate stances, they advanced slowly on Excel, who stood her ground.

"You have nothing to worry about," K-san assured Cosette, quietly. "All of my men have substantial training in the traditional discipline of—"

"_Excel chop_!"

K-san's eyes widened as Miki flew through the air, smashing through the paper screen behind the stage. Over the next few minutes, defying all common sense, he watched the girl scattered his trained fighters with yells of _Excel punch_! and _Excel kick_!—and, finally, _Excel throw_!—sending the six-foot-tall Hiroguchi into an ornamental pool of water. Excel stood victorious, dusting her hands.

Cosette screeched in disbelief, clawing her face. "Impossible! No!"

Three of the men managed to scramble to their feet and rushed Excel together, but she was unfazed. Again: "Ultimate _finishing technique_!"—they all lay sprawled in front of her.

Excel planted her hands on her hips. "Ha! Ha! Ha—"

"_Enough_!" yelled K-san.

There was immediate silence, and the word almost seemed to echo.

"That's the spirit, K-kun!" Cosette clapped her hands, smiling; then her expression darkened. "Kill her."

K-san nodded, pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and vaulted over the railing. He landed in a graceful crouch on the empty stage.

"I've never seen a technique like yours," he said as he rose. "I can't understand how you defeated my subordinates. However, it's time to put an end to this nonsense." He looked straight at Excel with his dead eyes like shotgun barrels, and she felt a flicker in her resolve. "I hold a third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do. A second-degree in Judo. I can kill a man in three seconds. If my superior has left by now, which I assume he has, then I am the deadliest man in this city." He paused, and said with infinite contempt: "Look at you. Why have you come here? What do you possibly expect to do to me?"

Slowly, as if reaching for a weapon, Excel removed a small remote control from her pocket.

"This," she said, and pressed the button.

Far above the rafters, there was a rumbling noise. Cosette looked up. K-san looked up. The building began to shake. A teacup rolled off the edge of a table and shattered on the floor. The band's abandoned instruments jumped and danced.

Excel grinned. "_Go to_ shi," she mouthed.

The ceiling erupted inwards with a scream of splinters. A pool of shadow poured out around K-san's feet.

Perhaps he could have leapt to safety, but for the split-second in which he could have acted, some force held him motionless. It was an awe: the noise and the trembling overhead seemed cosmic, divine. _So this is it_, he had the time to think. _This is really it._

There was nothing else.

Two hundred tons of metal drove down on him, and the VE-6050 Pfadfinderin stood in all its pastel glory inside the House of Blue Leaves.

Night air poured in through the ruptured ceiling. Looking up, Excel could see the stars.

* * *

Excel's preview: Well, as a very wise man one said, _some fellas are lucky and some aint_! So pour the dirt over both the quick and the dead as Death Rides a Bicycle keeps on rolling and the body count keeps on rising! Tune in next week for our Very Special Episode, "Goodbye, My Summer." But why's it _snowing_? 


	6. Goodbye, My Summer

AN: I was surprised there weren't more Evangelion jokes in Excel Saga.

5. Goodbye, My Summer

Silence filled the room. Then there was a scattered low groan, and several still-conscious yakuza toughs managed to climb to their feet. They glanced at the twenty-foot-tall 6050, standing where their boss had stood a moment before, and dashed for the exits. Excel let them run. She looked at the balcony, where the 6050's head now blocked her view of Cosette.

"Cosette-chan?" she called uncertainly. "You still there?"

There was no answer. Then, slowly, even her light footsteps loud in the nearly-empty room, Cosette walked along the balcony to the head of the stairs. She looked down at Excel. If possible, her face was more expressionless than before.

"Ex-Agent Excel?" she said, in a sleepwalker's drone.

"Cosette-chan?"

"Would you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"When you see my parents and K-kun on the other side of the Sanzu," she said, "send them my love."

"Huh? What's _that_ supposed to—" Excel noticed the remote in Cosette's hand.

The room began to shake again. Paper screens buckled; the unmoored drums rolled off the stage; fresh splinters rained through the hole above the 6050's head.

Excel cocked an eyebrow.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you?"

"You know? For a second there? I kind of did."

Cosette smiled mirthlessly. "Silly rabbit."

"Tricks are—"

"—for kids."

Excel burst into an all-out sprint as the ceiling gave way. Again, the rafters snapped, and another tremendous steel body fell like a sounding-weight into the room. Excel raced the rim of its expanding shadow and threw herself headlong just as it made impact, dodging death by less than a foot.

Dust cleared around the feet of Cosette's mecha. It stood nearly twice the height of the 6050, its head still lodged in the ceiling; it was massive, spiked, and painted in military drab. It had the build of a wrestler. Missiles as long as sharks were exposed underneath its cowling.

Excel gaped. "Oh _man_! Where'd you find a mech like _that_? Hey, how about this, I'll take yours and you take mine?"

Cosette, standing at the foot of the stairs, looked unimpressed.

"No, really. We'll play rock-paper-scissors, how 'bout that?"

_Goddamn, Shioji_, she thought, looking at Cosette's thirty-foot walking arsenal. _How come _I _gotta pilot the one that looks like a little girl?_

"Mine…suits you better?" she said.

"It is an interesting model," Cosette said impassively, glancing at it. "Where was it made?"

"Osaka."

"Who in Osaka made you that mech?"

"Kozo Shioji."

Cosette's eyes blazed. "_Liar_!"

"What?—What's the big deal?"

"Why would Doctor Shioji make _you_ a mech? But no…that design; of course. It _is_ a Shioji. But a Shioji mech is _peerless_…"

"So does mean mine's really better?"

Cosette blanched.

"It _does_, doesn't it!" Excel cackled, putting her hands on her hips: "Ha! Ha! Ha! _My_-mech-is bet-ter than _Co_-sette-chan's, _my_ mech-is—"

There was a beat as both girls realized that each stood closer to the other's mech. They both broke into a run, streaking past each other.

Excel clawed her way up the back of the 6050, digging her fingers into the cracks between the metal plates, pulling the skirt. A hatch hissed open between the robot's shoulderblades; she slithered inside. Cosette finished a second behind; she had a lighter body, but a taller robot to scale. The race was evened, though, by Excel's confusion as she stared at a bank of incomprehensible controls.

"_Oro_—?"

She prepared to press a button at random. There was a one-in-fifty chance…

"Excel!" said a metallic voice, filling the cockpit.

"It's the voice of my dead mentor!"

"Excel?—Do you copy? Miss Excel!"

"But – I don't _have_ a mentor, and he's not dead…"

"No, I'm not dead! This is your Uncle Shioji, speaking to you via the 6050's remote communications link!"

"Oh, hey! Is it really true you make the best mechs in _all_ Japan?"

"You'll have ample time to praise me later," said Shioji's voice. "For the moment, I'll have you know that the 6050's controls are fully voice-automated, geared to respond to the most basic orders. It's so simple a child could operate it!—Now _watch out_!"

"_Heh_?"

"_Ten thousand homing missile attack_!" shouted Cosette's voice, amplified through the mouthplate of her robot. Panels opened on the giant mecha's shoulders; dozens of tiny missiles screamed toward the motionless 6050.

"Oh for crying—" Shioji muttered, then, through the intercom, commanded the mech himself: "Pretty sparkling chaff!"

The 6050 struck an adorable pose, and twinkling particles filled the air around it. The missiles struck the chaff in eruption that left the mech unharmed.

"Hey, cool!"

"Now, do I have to fight this battle _myself_?" said Shioji.

"Robot!" shrieked Excel. "Attack! Destroy – that thing over there!"

The 6050 didn't respond.

"Come to think of it," Shioji muttered, "I probably should have had you memorize the names of its abilities…"

A second volley of missiles knocked the 6050 off its feet; Excel shrieked in pain, clutching her shoulders. "H-hey! What's the big idea; I _felt_ that!"

She heard the sheepishness in Shioji's voice: "Putting in a direct tactile link to the pilot seemed like a good idea at the time…"

"_Leaping attack_!" Cosette's mech, with an agility belying its size, jumped cleanly up through the hole it had left in the ceiling.

"_Dodge_!" yelled Shioji.

"Quick, what's the command?"

"Magical counter—"

It was too late. Cosette's mecha plummeted back through first hole in the roof, landing on top of the 6050 with a crash that toppled whatever had still been standing. Tables lay on their backs; one of the walls had begun to list inward. Straddling the 6050, Cosette's mech wrapped its heavy hands around its head and began to squeeze.

"Excel! Listen carefully!" Shioji yelled, over the sound of her screams.

"Wha—_aagh_!"

"To activate the 6050's ultimate power, you need simply—"

His voice was cut off in a snap of static; the remote connection had been severed. Excel heard the steady grinding as Cosette continued to crush her head.

_Great_.

"Silly little ditz like to play with giant robots," said Cosette, without malice.

_Think, think, think_…

"You know, you were going to die sooner or later. All I'm doing is speeding up the process."

_Ah-ha! If I remember my mecha anime…._

"You know," said Cosette. "Really, you're the lucky one…"

_…all I have to do is curl into a ball and say:_

"_I mustn't run away_," Excel whispered. "I mustn't run away. I mustn't run away!"

"What are you muttering about?" said Cosette.

"I musn't—"

"Never mind. It'll be over soon."

"—run away!"

The 6050's hands, lying useless on the floor, clenched suddenly into fists.

"_Mega angst counter_!" Excel yelled.

The 6050's body tightened and, in one whiplike motion, wrapped its own hands around the neck of Cosette's mech. For a moment the robots strained against each other; then Cosette's shuddered and released the 6050.

"Alright, girly robot!" Excel cheered. "Now kick it!"

Obediently, the 6050 braced its feet against Cosette's chest and pushed. The mech flipped onto its back as if it weighed nothing, and another blow shook the building.

"Yeah! Kick its ass!"

"_Impossible_!" Cosette screamed, and tried to right herself; but Excel, standing over her, brandished the 6050's wand. The six-foot metal rod was topped with a green jewel flanked by angel's wings, and Excel pointed it, ordering:

"_Fire one_!"

The wand spit a thin pink beam, and the chest of Cosette's mech split open. Circuits and wires blazed, exposed, and a girl's scream came through the mouthplate.

Excel hesitated.

"So…" she heard Cosette whisper. "That really _was_…a Shioji mech…"

As if in response, the metallic voice sounded again in Excel's cockpit.

"Alright," said Shioji, "this is me on the backup circuit. I've lost visual contact, though. Is everything alright?"

"Yep-yep!" Excel crowed. "Hey, this mecha _rocks_! And Excel figured out the secret to its ultimate power _all_ on her own!"

"You – did?"

"Sure did!"

"That you had to curl into a ball and say 'I mustn't run away?'"

"Uh-huh!"

"You _guessed_ that?"

"Excel may not be a genius, but she succeeds where it counts!"

"Hmm. As a scientist, I find it difficult to refute such concrete evidence."

"Ha! Ha! If I had fifty yen for every time I heard that one, _sensei_!"

She was startled back to the exterior world by a creaking noise. Even as black smoke poured from under her mecha's chest plate, Cosette was slowly moving.

"Not so fast!" Excel pointed the wand. "I'll finish this now!—Power at one hundred percent! Two hundred! Three hundred! Three hundred _fifty_, going once, going twice, _sold_!—To the young lady in the giant camo mecha, soon to be one more tragic thread in the tapestry of Excel's vengeance!"

The jewel at the tip of the wand began to glow.

"Hmm." Shioji held his breath.

Cosette's mech froze. Rising off its back, it remained braced on its hands and feet, like a spider, staring up at Excel. She wondered if its controls had somehow broken. Then she heard, so faint it was barely a whisper:

"_Mother_…"

"What's that?—Three hundred fifty percent's not good enough for ya? How about _four_ hundred, that sound good?"

The wand twitched in her hand. The jewel burned, almost blinding her.

Cosette whispered again, too softly to hear, but Excel knew it was the same word. The giant mech remained motionless.

"Okay! _Five_ hundred!"

"Wait a minute!" barked Shioji.

"Eh?"

The fire on the end of the wand sputtered and died.

"Listen to her," said Shioji.

"She said _mother_. So what?"

"She's just a child!"

"Well what am I _supposed_ to do?"

The wand began glow again.

"Besides," she said, "since when do _you_ care about something like that?"

"All I'm trying to do is save the life of a young, innocent, virginal – one might even sat _cherubic_ – young girl! Miss Excel…" His voice softened. "Can't you think of any other option?"

"It's a giant robot fight! Giant robots punch each other! Sometimes, shoot each other! Hey you _make_ these things!"

"'One carries a sword,'" said Shioji, "'so that one will not have to draw it.' Do you know what that means?"

Excel was silent.

"As I said, manufacturing engines of destruction is my profession. Not my passion."

"Well maybe _you_ oughta get a new profession!"

"Perhaps I should! But that isn't the issue here. The question is, are you going to murder that little girl? Can you look, with you eyes wide open, and do it?"

Excel considered. "What if – I _close_ my eyes?"

"Well, you'll still have to hear her screams of anguish."

There was silence. Then, again, Cosette whispered faintly: "_Mother_. _Mother_."

Excel lowered the wand, and sighed.

"Man. You wise old mentors are really a pain in the butt sometimes."

Looking down at Cosette, though, Excel had a sudden attack of thought. What was it with her epic journey of revenge and little girls? Hatchan's daughter. Shioji's assistant. Cosette-chan. _Mother_. Why did it remind of that day, four years ago? And what was it she felt now, that she had felt before when Hatchan's daughter had looked up at her, dewy-eyed, demanding to know why she had killed her mother?

Probably hunger, she decided. That was the safest bet.

"Okay," she whispered. "You win."

She wasn't sure if she was talking to Shioji, or to something else.

* * *

"Young Miss!" called the nurse, peeking her head inside the room. 

The girl sat silent and motionless, facing the wall, as she had constantly since her admittance four hours ago. She had appeared mysteriously in the parking lot – dropped there, since it would have been nearly impossible to move in her condition. There had been few external injuries, but the doctor diagnosed shock, the most severe case he had seen in years.

"Young Miss?"

The girl still didn't answer.

"Excuse me, young Miss, but you have a visitor…"

The girl showed her first visible reaction, stiffening. The nurse smiled, taking it as a hopeful sign.

"You see, your father is here to see you!"

"_Father_?" the girl whispered.

"And you can speak! Oh, wonderful, he'll be so pleased to see you're alright!"

"But I don't have…"

It was too late. A shadow filled the doorway, spilling over Cosette. She recognized him by the shape.

So. They had believed that _he_ was her father? Then again, she had been dressed as eccentrically as he was. Perhaps, after all, they were the same.

He approached the back of her chair. She heard his cloak rustle over the tiles, and felt his soft breath on the nape of her neck. His gloved hands settled over her shoulders.

"Cosette-chan," he whispered. "My darling Cosette-chan."

"I failed you, Lord Ilpalazzo," she whispered. "I don't deserve to live."

"And yet you're alive."

"Yes."

There was a silence, and a hissing came from the air-conditioning vent. She felt his hand brush through her hair, parting the matted strands, and she shuddered.

"And for that fact," said Lord Ilpalazzo, "I am most grateful."

"Forgive me. But Lord Ilpalazzo shouldn't be."

Another silence.

"If you had to guess," he said at length, "why she left you alive – what would be your guess?"

"Guessing won't be necessary. She said," said Cosette, and choked. "She said I could keep my wicked life – for two reasons."

"Yes? And what were the reasons?"

"Because she felt sorry for me. Because—"

Ilpalazzo waited, patiently, as Cosette tried successfully to hold back her tears.

"Because," she finally said. "She reminded me of herself."

"I see."

"And the second reason was – so I could tell you. That she plans to kill you, and that nothing will stop her."

"Yes," said Ilpalazzo, "she is persistent. One must allow her that much."

His tone of voice was strange. Cosette, facing away from him, suddenly wished she could see his expression.

"And so I could tell you what I'd told her," she added.

"And what did you tell her, Cosette-chan?"

"Where I thought she could find you."

"And where – my dear, dear little pearl – did you think she could find me?"

"In the ruins of F City."

"Then," he said, in that same strange tone of voice, "I shall make sure to be there."

She almost glanced around. "…Sir?"

"I believe I made myself clear." He stepped back, lifting his hands from her shoulders. "Cosette-chan. Make sure to rest until you've recovered. I will handle all expenses."

"—_Sir_? You're not going to…?"

"Why," he said mildly, "whatever could you mean?"

"But sir!—I failed you! I deserve nothing less…"

"Goodnight," he said, standing in the doorway. "Have sweet dreams."

Then he was gone.

* * *

Excel's preview: Hey, kids! You all know how to count to ten in English, right? Well how about Japanese – or _nihongo_, as we 'in the know' like to call it, ha ha ha! Repeat after me, now: _Ichi_. _Ni_. Eh, what the hell, let's stop with _ni_! Cause 'two' is the only number you'll need for 'twice' the action, 'twice' the adventure and 'twice' the parody as Volume Two of Death Rides a Bicycle begins its lofty ascent! Don't miss it! 

AN: Come to think of it, this is funnier if you know that Shioji's voice actor, Spike Spence, also dubbed Shinji Ikari…anyway, a special thanks to my reviewers. I've been away from the game awhile, and I'd forgotten how nice it felt to get instantaneous, (usually) positive feedback. Thanks, guys.

Also, if you know what Excel's preview is a parody of, you and I share some pretty weird memories.


	7. Volume Two

6. Volume Two

Four years after the disaster which had leveled F City, the land remained dead and blasted. Heat from the impact lingered, and the vegetation had been stripped away, making the climate a permanent desert. The sun, with no trees to stop it, blazed on every inch of the flat plain; waves of dust rolled over it. A tumbleweed might have sailed past, if tumbleweeds had been indigenous to Japan.

Over the years, cars traveling north and south had marked a rough road over the desert. There was nothing to stop for, nothing to see; any vehicle that passed through usually went at top speed, and a breakdown could be fatal. Now, though, coming from the north, a car appeared – first as a wink on the horizon, then its white shape slowly materialized out of a wave of burning air – at a leisurely pace, cruising down the road.

Ilpalazzo, sitting on the stoop of his trailer, watched it come. He recognized the open-roofed Cadillac – and, when it stopped, he recognized the driver. He gave a thin smile that vanished as quickly as a dust-devil.

That Man climbed out of the car, brushing dust off the sleeves of his white jacket. His mouth was set in a scowl. He glanced around, squinting against the sun, and spotted Ilpalazzo in the door of the trailer. For a moment they were still, regarding each other. That Man stood with his hands in his pockets. Ilpalazzo lifted his glass of wine, and sipped. He held it out to That Man.

"_Pinot noir_. Good vintage. Can I tempt you?"

"I'll pass," said That Man, through his gritted teeth. He coughed. "What the hell are you playing at?"

Ilpalazzo shrugged. "Well, I was enjoying my wine. And now I'm speaking with my superior." He paused, looking back at That Man with his inscrutable face. "You know," he said, "you're apt to catch sunstroke, standing out in the open. Why don't you come over here? This structure provides some shade."

"Ah, yes." That Man's eyes flicked distastefully over the filthy white trailer. "And do I even dare ask why I find you in such – _contemptible_ lodgings?"

Ilpalazzo sipped. "I find them quite adequate for my needs," he said.

That Man stepped closer, slowly, scraping his feet over the dusty ground.

"I suppose you think this is pretty funny," he sneered.

"The thought never so much as crossed my mind."

"You always did have to do it your own way, didn't you?"

"I don't have the slightest idea what you mean."

That Man came to a stop, standing over Ilpalazzo.

"Look," he almost hissed. "I know – that we haven't spoken in some time, and that the last time we spoke – wasn't the most pleasant. But you have to stop being angry at me, and start being afraid of Excel. Because she's coming here to kill you. And, if you don't accept my assistance – I have no _doubt_ that she will succeed."

Ilpalazzo looked past That Man, at the scorched ruins of buildings on the horizon.

"Excel-kun?"

"Since you're cowering out here in the badlands, I can only assume you _are_ afraid. The girl is far more dangerous than I anticipated. Did you know she commands a Kozo Shioji mech?"

"Doctor Shioji." Again, Ilpalazzo gave the briefest smile. "It's been some time."

"You don't seem fazed by your impending death."

Ilpalazzo laughed. At first, That Man thought he must have mistaken the sound – but, squatting in the door of the run-down trailer, holding his thin-stemmed wine glass, Lord Ilpalazzo was laughing, louder and louder under the hills boomed. That Man realized why it sounded odd. It was not maniacal laughter.

When it had faded, Ilpalazzo looked back at him.

"What do you know?" he said. "You're just That Man."

* * *

At the night, the oven-hot desert cooled. By ten p.m., with the northerly wind, it had grown so nippy that Excel had donned her leather jacket again. She rode. Her bicycle chain was caked with dirt, and her skin still burned from hours riding under the sun. She was close to her goal, though, so close it was almost too exciting to contemplate, and as she pedaled she sung quietly to herself:

"_Do you know what my name-is_?—_It's actually a se-cret_…_I haven't-slept in three days_…_cy-cl-ing from To-ky-o_…_but when I find Lord Il-pala-zzo_…_I'm gonna kill-kill him dead_…_and then_…and then…"

She was at a loss.

She was getting closer, though; she recognized half-buried landmarks. Soon she would come on an entrance to the sewers – and to Lord Ilpalazzo's sanctum. She hoped Cosette-chan's information was reliable, though. It hadn't occurred to her at the time, but now she remembered a line from a funny American movie she had seen in high school: "_You beat on this prick enough, he'll tell you he started the Chicago fire, but that don't necessarily make it so_!"

But doubts were fleeting. Now, she recognized the familiar sewer grate set in the side of a hill. Nearby was a run-down trailer, lights in the windows, obviously no part of the ruined city.

_Shame on you, Lord Ilpalazzo, living like an American_, she thought, clicking her tongue_. You can't do _anything_ without Excel around, can you_…but she shook her head; that train of thought was unsettling.

She stopped, and let the kickstand down.

Even at a distance, she could hear faint strains of music coming from the trailer: guitar chords, and an ambiguous, faint voice, singing. _Of course_. She smiled in spite of herself. _Practicing his silly guitar. And _he_ thought I didn't know about that. _

As she crept closer, stopping from time to time to wait for any movement from the trailer, she could make out the words:

"_Money can't buy back…your youth when you're old…or a friend when you're lonely…or a love that's grown cold…_"

She stopped for a moment, listening. Was that really Ilpalazzo's voice? It sounded –sad. She had never heard anything but playful contempt from him; except for happiness, pride and affection which she knew, if she was honest with herself, she had imagined.

"_The wealthiest person…is a pauper at times…compared with to the man…with a satisfied mind._"

She dropped to her knees, and began to crawl. She couldn't make out anything inside the lit windows.

"_When life has ended, and my time has run out…my friends and my loved ones…I'll leave them, no doubt. But there's one thing for certain, when it comes my time…I'll leave this old world…with a satisfied mind._"

She made the door and crouched down next to it. She wasn't sure how she would defeat him; but he was distracted, unsuspecting. He didn't stand a chance. She almost felt guilty – but she remembered, and clenched her heart.

"_How many times have you heard someone say_…"

Her hand was on the door; she shoved. A sudden panicked thought, though, at the last second: _Wa-ait, Lord Ilpalazzo can't play the guitar that goo—_

The delicate acoustic playing stopped. As the door flew open, two amplifiers blasted Excel with the force of a long, screaming electric riff. The force blew through the door and sent her sprawling.

She landed on her back a yard away from the trailer. She could hear nothing except for the continuing ear-splitting roar, although the riff had stopped, and she looked up at the stars; white, brilliant, like reflection of her pain. She held her head. Then the noise began to fade. Instead, she heard footsteps.

Key, his electric guitar braced over his shoulder like a sword, walked down the cinderblock steps and began to cross the ground the toward Excel. He moved with a swagger, stripped bare to the waist. He smirked, but not entirely in malice. In his other hand, he held a bottle of home-brewed absinthe, which he pulled on.

"_Ah_!—Gorgeous! That's the stuff."

He stood over Excel, an amazed look from the rush of absinthe in his eyes.

"So, music soothes the savage beast," he muttered.

Excel coughed. "H-hey, you weirdo!" she managed. "That _really_ hurt! What's the big idea!"

He began to pace around her, the guitar swinging over his shoulder. He ran a hand through his hair. "'Tis anguish grander than delight; tis Resurrection Pain…'"

She tried to get up; he put his foot on her chest.

"Emily Dickinson."

Her eyes, regaining focus, settled on him.

"…You."

"Didn't I tell you we'd meet again, _mi corazon_?"

"Hey—" she coughed again. "Hey, what's your _deal_? How come you work for ACROSS, if you're like a Rock God or something?"

He laughed. "Destruction. Conquest. All the vilest, darkest elements of the human heart, erupting in all their apocalyptic grandeur! What better food for Art?"

"Where's Ilpalazzo?"

"'Tis transport wild as thrills the Graves, where Cerements let go…'"

"_Where's Ilpalazzo_?"

He looked at her with something approaching pity. "Don't concern yourself with that. Pretty soon, he'll be the furthest thing from your mind."

"What's _that_—"

He brought his guitar down on her forehead. There was a crack; a string snapped; she lay still.

Key took another swig of absinthe, emptying the bottle. He looked at it, peered into the neck with one eye, then flung it contemptuously at the desert. It smashed on a distant rock.

He walked back to the trailer with the same easy strides, and set the guitar down leaning against the wall. He reached into his pocket and found his cellphone.

After a brief ring, he heard the cold voice: "Yes, Key?"

"My gracious lord, thy will be done."

"Then…?"

"Yes. Did you ever doubt me?"

"I…I see."

Was it _regret_ he heard in Ilpalazzo's voice?—Key prided himself in his powers of analysis, but it seemed too unlikely. When Ilpalazzo spoke again, he sounded as before:

"Then you've disposed of her?"

"No." He glanced over at Excel's prone body. "'The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth.' I could perform the coup-de-grace with a rock."

"Then proceed according to your instructions."

"Sir."

Ilpalazzo disconnected.

Key blinked. Although gloating had never been Lord Ilpalazzo's greatest weakness as a villain, Key was still surprised that he had not said one word in celebration.

Somewhere nearby, a wild dog barked desperately.

* * *

Excel had been having a wonderful dream. She was sitting on a golden throne, wearing a sarong, while Key and that weird boy from the restaurant fanned her with palm fronds. Lord Ilpalazzo kneeled before her, kissing her feet, as he humbly begged her forgiveness, pledged his eternal love. A summer breeze teased her bronzed skin. Idly, she wondered what Hatchan was up to.

Then she woke, to a sour smell and a light kick in the ribs.

"'Arise, fair sun,'" said a mocking voice, "'and kill the envious moon.'"

She opened her eyes. Her head felt like a pot of honey. She groaned, expecting to find herself lying in bed next to an attractive stranger; then memory filtered back.

She saw Key's boots in front of her eyes, sideways. No. _She_ was sideways; she was lying on her side, her hands and feet bound with rope.

"You ever listen to K-BILLY'S Super Sounds of the Seventies?" said Key. "It's one of my personal—oh, sorry. Wrong parody."

"_Key_!" called a hoarse, unattractive voice. "I'm done! Get me out of this hole!"

She raised her head, trying to see more of her surroundings. Key turned, and they both looked behind him, where the voice came out of a square hole in the tile floor.

"Ah," said Key. "Pardon me."

He walked to the edge of the hole, and let down a rope which had been coiled nearby. A moment later, an ugly, squat little creature clambered up the rope. It was a pale color and wore a diaper, and might have been cute if not for the grotesque features of its oversized head. Dusting itself off, it glanced over at Excel.

"Heh. Look at her eyes; this bitch is _furious_!"

Key sidled back to her, the puchuu following. They looked smilingly down at her. She was silent, biting her lip.

"I guess that's what you humans call the _silent treatment_," sneered the puchuu. "Lemme guess. You just let em _think_ you don't like it."

Key laughed. "A paragon of wit, as always, my portly little friend." To Excel he said: "This puchuu has been generous enough to volunteer his services to Ilpalazzo. You'll be experiencing them firsthand, pretty soon."

The puchuu cackled. "That's right! That hole was pretty deep _before_, but good luck getting outta there _now_!"

"Hole…?"

"Lord Ilpalazzo's instructions were quite specific, I'm afraid," said Key. "He didn't want there to be any doubt."

"Couldn't you just – shoot me or something?" said Excel, still groggy; then stopped herself, not wanting to give them ideas.

"Perhaps." Key shrugged. "But you'll agree, this method has a certain measure of poetry in it. And Lord Ilpalazzo, almost as much as myself, has always appreciated poetry."

"Well goody for him."

"Any last words?" said Key. "Don't hold back. I could probably craft them into an excellent ballad. Something worthy of Morrison."

"Go to hell."

"Tsk, tsk." He shook his head. "How maudlin."

He reached for her. She sunk her teeth into his hand, and he gave a very feminine yelp. "_Ow_!—Jesus." He pulled back, glaring. "Fine; if that's how you want it." He held up a slim, black-handled flashlight. "You're going into the ground tonight, one way or the other. I meant to let you have _this_. But if you're going throw a big snit, I'll just have to _keep_ my little friend here – then you'll be blind, down there. Like Orpheus in the underworld."

"A _flashlight_? What good would that be if I'm gonna _starve_ to death in a great big _pit_?"

Key huffed. "Some people just don't appreciate the value of symbolism." He leaned down and took hold of her more roughly, careful to keep his hands clear of her teeth, and hauled her up. "Puchuu!" he called.

"Yeah, boss?"

"The rope."

The puchuu waddled past them. Excel looked around, and realized suddenly where they were: the familiar room; the throne; the sewage pipes. She felt a pang of untimely heartache. The puchuu headed for a rope, suspended, of course, from the ceiling, next to Lord Ilpalazzo's empty throne. Looking back the other way, she saw that a tile had slid into place over the hole the puchuu had climbed out of.

"Just like old times, eh?" said Key, with uncharacteristic lightness, grinning.

She grinned uneasily back. "Just like old times."

"If that's any consolation."

"Hey. Any chance you could, uh – let me go? Maybe?"

Key smiled. She couldn't be sure, but she thought there was more sympathy than cruelty in the gesture. "'There's no chance at all,'" he said. "'We are all trapped by a singular fate.'"

He set her down over the collapsing panel. The puchuu stood by the rope.

"'Nobody ever finds the one,'" Key recited. "'The city dumps fill. The junkyards fill. The madhouses fill. The hospitals fill. The graveyards fill. Nothing else fills.'" He paused. "Charles Bukowski."

He snapped his fingers. The puchuu leapt up, wrapping its arms around the rope, and pulled…again, again. The story of her life.

"_Sayonara_," whispered Key, blowing a kiss.

* * *

_Excel's Preview_: "I'm fa-a-a-a-a-(please join us next time for)-a-a-a-a-a-(our first and only flashback)-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-(sequence, starring me, our esteemed director)-a-a-a-a-(and his famous hair!)-a-a-l-l-l-l-l-(as Death Rides a bicycle continues with)-l-l-l-l-i-i-i-i-n-n-n-n-("The Indifferent Tutelage of Nabeshin!")-n-n-n-g!" 


	8. The Indifferent Tutelage of Nabeshin

AN: Morricone's _L'Arena_ is a very beautiful piece of music…

7. The Indifferent Tutelage of Nabeshin

It was cold, dark and damp. She was beginning to regret having forfeited the flashlight. She was alone, afraid and hungry. She had already gnawed through – and eaten – the rope that had bound her hands and feet, but it had proved tough and indigestible.

Slowly, agonizingly, her fingernail dug again into the hard-packed dirt of the shaft wall. Why she did it, she couldn't say. No one would ever see. She couldn't even see herself. Still, next to the six vertical marks already scraped into the wall, she added a seventh. She could feel them with her hand; the record of her captivity.

_Geez_, she thought, and sighed. _I've already been this whole for seven whole _minutes. _Is Excel…really gonna die down here?_

This wasn't how epic revenge quests ended. There was a way out, certainly – but damned if she could find it. What had seemed like too-elaborate a death trap had turned out to be deadly simple. She had checked her pockets, but Key had found and taken the remote: the 6050 was out of reach, and Shioji's tracking device was imbedded in it, not her; he wouldn't find her. Again she heard Key's voice: _There is no escape_.

_Now if only some helpful citizen would roll a television over the mouth of the pit, my vengeful ghost could continue the mission…_

But that was about as likely as Lord Ilpalazzo himself letting down a rope.

She curled up on her side, hugging her knees. As time passed, the stagnant pool of groundwater underneath her received first one, then two, then a steady trickle of tears.

* * *

"Once upon a time, in F City…" 

Lord Ilpalazzo was speaking. Although Excel would have been quick to insist that she hung on his every word, and it would in fact have been difficult to find a more attentive listener, the way in which she appreciated his words – _Once! China!_ – made it difficult to understand his overall meaning. Also, she was distracted; she had rarely been so close to Lord Ilpalazzo's person. He drove the car, she was the passenger; from time to time their knees almost brushed against each other.

If she didn't pay attention, though, she knew she'd never know where they were going, or why. But what did _China_ have to do with anything?

"…some believe around six months ago…"

It was a hot summer's day. The concrete walls of F City's huge apartment buildings sizzled, and Ilpalazzo drove with the window down. For this 'mixing with the ignorant masses' occasion, he had adopted a conservative black wig and business suit, although his trademark glasses (not to mention his undisguisably aristocratic features) gave him away. Excel was dizzy with privilege. Surely this was a mission of the utmost importance!—And Ilpalazzo had selected _her_, not Hatchan, for participation! What was next; a promotion? Dare she even hope – a kind word? With her hands pressed in her lap, she fixed her widest, dewiest eyes on Ilpalazzo. She would have expressed her joy aloud; except that he had pointed out, before they left, the car's ejector seat.

"…Nabeshin, International man of mystery, was purchasing energy drinks and a candy bar in a convenience store not far from here," Ilpalazzo went on, oblivious to (or at least ignoring) her adoring gaze. "The total for the purchase came to some two hundred yen. Now Nabeshin – in a practically _unfathomable_ display of generosity – expressed his intention to pay in full, by check. The clerk then informed that it was the policy of the store – not to accept personal checks.

"Now was it the intention of the clerk to arouse Nabeshin's ire? Or did he simply – fail to appreciate Nabeshin's generosity in offering to pay at all? The motives of the clerk remain unknown. What is known – are the consequences."

Ilpalazzo paused to honk at an old lady sitting in front of them at the green light, and Excel took the opportunity to nod ecstatically. As they began to drive again, Ilpalazzo continued: "Nabeshin demanded of the insolent clerk that he summon his superior. The manager at first attempted to console Nabeshin – only to find that Nabeshin was – _inconsolable_."

He smiled darkly, and stopped to nudge his glasses further up his nose. Excel nodded again; although she was secretly filled with terror, as the point of the story escaped her.

"So began the massacre of all six employees in the store, at the fists of Nabeshin. And so began the legend – of Nabeshin's _Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique_."

"Whoa!" Excel saluted. "Lord Ilpalazzo! Please explain, for the benefit of Excel's poor wandering mind, the _Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique_!"

Ilpalazzo smiled again. "It's rather simple, I'm told. He strikes you with his fingertips at five specific places on your body, then – lets you walk away. However, you will take no more than five steps before your heart simply, well, _explodes_ in your chest. As you may imagine, Agent Excel, it is by far the most lethal fighting technique known to man, and yet no one other than Nabeshin has ever claimed to master it."

"Sir! If Excel may venture a humble guess, this incredible and highly unlikely-sounding technique would be an invaluable addition to ACROSS's fighting power, if only an agent of ACROSS were able to learn its secret!—Lord Ilpalazzo, wouldn't it be funny if we were on our way, this very instant, to find this Nabeshin so that—?"

Ilpalazzo stopped in front of a grim-looking apartment tower, like any other in F City, and parked the car.

"Your powers of erudition are unusual today, Agent Excel."

"Lord Ilpalazzo! Those are the kindest words your Excel has ever _heard_!"

"We are currently parked in front of Nabeshin's residence. I recently found—" he removed a newspaper clipping from his breast pocket—"_this_ item in our decadent, corporate-controlled – but nonetheless generally reliable – daily newspaper."

Excel squinted.

_Invincible Martial Arts Master Nabeshin seeks enthusiastic, dedicated and sturdy disciple for enlightenment, etc. Brains not required! Apply at…_

Scratching her head, Excel said hesitantly: "Forgive me, Lord Ilpalazzo – but isn't a _sturdy_ an odd choice of words? And – 'brains not required?'"

"In other words," said Ilpalazzo, smiling yet again, "this assignment seems ideally suited for you, Agent Excel."

"Excel's defense mechanisms choose to interpret that as a compliment!"

"Indeed. Now locate this Nabeshin without delay!—Oh, and be sure to take this slip of paper along. I suspect that otherwise you may forget the apartment number, and spend the rest of your days wandering around inside Hiroi Towers."

She laughed uneasily. "Lord Ilpalazzo sure knows his Excel backwards and forwards! Ha, ha."

"Delay no longer. Even as we speak, this opportunity may be slipping through our fingers."

Standing on the curb, looking through the rolled-down window of the rental car, Excel said timidly: "When will I see you again?"

He gestured vaguely.

"Oh…okay." She snapped to attention, and saluted. "Then Excel will do her best to carry out the mission! Never fear, Lord Ilpalazzo, for your loyal Excel—"

Ilpalazzo looked up at her. Somehow, from his grandly expressive glance, she understood clearly: _Look, whatever! Just don't come back for a few days. God forbid I should actually get something _done_ in your absence._

The automatic window hissed back up. The car pulled away, and Excel was left alone, in the huge empty sweep between two apartment towers.

* * *

_This looks like Apartment 233-F…_

Stuffing the clipping into her pocket, she knocked. There was no immediate answer. She thought she heard a television buzzing. She knocked again more forcefully, and, clearing her throat, said: "Excuse me?—Mister Nabeshin?"

"Eh?" came a loud, almost drunken groan from the other side of the door. "Who wants what with Nabeshin? And keep in mind I'm only answering 'cause you sound like a girl. And maybe a cute one at that."

"Umm…" Excel scratched her chin. This was not behavior she had expected from a learned practitioner of the martial arts. "Uh, Nabeshin-_sensei_? This young girl has come all the way from – well, just across town, I guess – in answer your request for a student." She bowed, in case he was looking through the peephole.

"Request—? Oh, damn! Forgot all about that thing!"

The door opened on a somewhat scrawny man, on the younger side of middle age. Wearing a white tank top and boxer shorts with a pattern of baseballs, stubble on his chin and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was a less than imposing sight. What most drew Excel's eyes, though, was his afro. It was majestic, almost redeeming the rest of his appearance.

"N-Nabeshin-_sensei_?"

He grinned. "The one and only. What can I do for ya, gorgeous?"

She bowed again. Surely, she thought, the fact that he cared so little for appearance was the surest sign of his power and wisdom.

"Anyhoo," he said, scratching his afro, "you want some training, huh? Well to tell ya the truth, I didn't really expect anyone. Fact is, I never really had a proper disciple. Never one to disappoint the ladies, though! Maybe we can work something out."

"Excel hungrily awaits even the smallest crumb of wisdom from the Master's table!"

He chuckled. "You sure got a funny way of talkin', Miss! Anyway, come on in!"

In the two-room apartment, loose clothes obscured almost every surface, and the smell of male sweat was strong. Five cigarettes smoldered in an ashtray. "S'cuse me, Ma'am," he muttered, rubbing his belly. "Haven't tidied up in awhile. Not since…" Suddenly, his eyes became tight with pain, and Excel followed his glance to a framed photograph on the windowsill. "Since Kumi left.—Well, make yourself at home."

As Nabeshin made a half-hearted effort to gather the scattered socks and undershirts, Excel wandered over to glance at the photograph. It was a busty, healthy-looking girl, smiling, holding a bowl of soup on a tray. She decided the Master probably wouldn't appreciate any questions on the subject.

Turning her head, she noticed Nabeshin emptying the ashtray into an overflowing trashcan.

"Master!" She grabbed his arm. "You can't soil your hands with such menial tasks! Please allow Excel to care of it!"

Nabeshin watched, impressed, as Excel carefully scraped the ashtray clean, and set it back on the table. He made no move to stop her as she went on to fold his clothes, bravely ignoring the smell; swept Pocky crumbs from between the couch cushions; watered a sickly-looking bonsai tree; even straightened the lampshade.

"Man, who knew?" he drawled to himself, as she swept on her hands and knees underneath the rug. "Havin' a disciple rocks!"

* * *

On the second day of her apprenticeship to Great Master Nabeshin, growing suspicious that all he ever did was sit around, smoke and watch soap operas, Excel gently requested some display of his incredible fighting prowess. Thoughtlessly, he stacked ten of his cheap dishes into a perfect tower. He took a deep breath, wound back his hand, and chopped – and the dishes fell away in two perfectly-divided halves, as if cut by a laser. 

Excel gaped. "Merciful God!"

"Yeah," Nabeshin said, blowing on his hand, "it looks cool. But I tell ya, Miss; the third time you do a jumping side kick out of a helicopter, hitting the paratrooper who's got a hold on your sweetheart, well – it doesn't even feel like you're doing it anymore."

* * *

On the fourth day, elbow-deep in a sinkful of dirty dishes, Excel composed a letter in her head:

_My dearest Lord Ilpalazzo,_

_Your Excel is doing her best to carry out the mission according to your instructions! Currently, I am training hard under the tutelage of Master Nabeshin. According to the Master, the proper training for an initiate of my level involves washing dishes (which Excel is currently undertaking), carrying garbage, watering plants, vacuuming, buying groceries, moving furniture…well, at least Excel certainly can't fault the Master's training regime for being repetitive. The Master seems like a good-hearted person, although his manners are sometimes crude, and should require little reeducation when ACROSS completes its conquest of the city. However, I regret to report that I have made no progress in my main objective of discovering the secret of Master's Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique! However, gaining the his trust and affection seems the best way to proceed._

_But seriously, what's up with him and this Kumi-Kumi girl? He's a butt-kickin' martial-arts guy; if he'd just shave a little better, I bet he could get a new girl by tomorrow! Who knew Masters worried about dumb things like some chesty country girl they used to date?_

_Well, anyway, your Excel misses you, and it goes without saying the only thing sustaining me during these long, cold F City nights is the thought that, by our separation, Excel is fulfilling your wishes; but I long for the day when I will see your face again, Lord Ilpalazzo!_

_Yours always,_

_Excel Excel_

* * *

At night, Nabeshin unrolled two futons on the living-room floor. In spite of his comments on they day they met, there turned out to be nothing lecherous in his character. They slept peacefully, side-by-side, although Excel was sometimes kept awake by thoughts of her distant Lord – and, while she lay awake, she sometimes heard Nabeshin muttering _Kumi_…_Kumi_ in his sleep. 

Finally, during the fifth night of her apprenticeship, Excel rolled on her side and whispered: "_Master?—You still awake?_"

"Yep," he whispered back; then, realizing there was no need for whispering, said quietly: "Somethin' on your mind, Grasshopper?"

"I dunno…" Excel looked up at the ceiling. The city lights bled through the curtains, combining in lazy abstract patterns. "I'm not really used to this."

Nabeshin smirked. "Sharin' your sleeping arrangements with a strange man?"

"No…It's just…"

"Take your time." Nabeshin lit a cigarette, and the point glowed in the dark room. It was difficult to make out his face around it.

"I guess I haven't really _talked_ to anyone in a long time. It's so _weird_, not living with Hatchan or – seeing _him_ in the morning."

"This 'Lord Ilpalazzo' your were talkin' about?"

Her eyes lit up as bright as the point of his cigarette. "Oh, yeah! Lord Ilpalazzo! Oo-o-oh, Excel's heart beats a triple speed! But…"

Nabeshin sat up, cradling his knees. "Yeah?"

"But…I guess it's just, I never imagined I could live without Lord Ilpalazzo. But now I haven't seen him in five whole days. And – I kind of feel alright." She clenched her hands. "Master! No, Excel _can't_ live without lord Ilpalazzo! But – it just seems like I've tried and tried, and no matter what I do, he _never_ praises me…never even notices me. And that didn't bother me, until…"

"Huh." Nabeshin blew smoke at the wall, seeming to think hard. "This Ilpalazzo guy. He's pretty handsome?"

"Lord Ilpalazzo puts American movie stars to shame!"

"And you say you love him?"

"I…"

"Well, do you or don't you, Grasshopper?"

Excel was quiet a long time.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"I guess that's it." She looked at him suddenly. "Master, how about you? What's it with you and that Kumi-Kumi?—Love can't be _that_ important, can it? Surely not as important as conquest? Educating the masses? Making the world a better place?"

"Well." Nabeshin took another drag. "Let me tell you somethin'. What you say might be true. I'm not necessarily denyin' that." He took the cigarette from his lips, and shook it thoughtfully. "I'm not necessarily denyin' the world might be a better place without love. Cause see, here's how it is. To you, Kumi-Kumi might not seem like much. She was just a simple mountain girl. Made a hell of a bowl of soup, but…there's other girls could do that just as well. Anyway, she left me with a note on the table, little sad face on the note. Smelled like her perfume." He paused. "You ever hear that story about me and the Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique?"

Excel tensed. Briefly, the thought of her mission swept all introspection from her mind; she listened intently.

"It's a load of crap," said Nabeshin, bluntly. "I only did four hits on the guy, to put the scare on 'im. And I only did _that_ cause I was in a bad mood, cause that was the day Kumi left me."

"Master…"

"What I mean to say is, what's it matter if you can kill a guy by pokin' him five times with your fingertips? What's it matter if you don't have the one thing that matters to you most in the whole world?" Snuffing his cigarette, he lay back down. "Don't mind me. I don't know about love one way or the other. All I know is, I'd trade being able to chop a couple of plates in half for a bowl of Kumi's soup, any day of the week."

A second later, as Excel pondered what he had said, he seemed to remember how the conversation had reached that subject.

"Anyway," he said suddenly. "This Ilpalazzo guy. What's the matter, then, you're startin' to wonder if it's really worth it?"

Silently, terrified, Excel nodded.

"I say, why the hell not?Doesn't matter if it's a human heart or a really heavy rock. If you wanna move it, go ahead and move it! A young girl like you's not half-done fighting. When you make up your mind to do a thing, no matter how foolish and ill-conceived, the important thing is to go through with it, pig-headedly, at any cost!

"Thus endeth the lesson for today, Grasshopper." He yawned. "'Night."

Excel blinked at the ceiling. A moment later, when she called softly: "Master?"—there was no answer, expect for a ripping snore.

* * *

Now, nearly five later later, Excel remembered the words by heart. 

She ran her hand over the seven marks she had scratched into the wall. She bit her tongue. Slowly, grateful she had always kept her nails short, she began to scratch deeper. Past the hard, dried wall of the pit, the soil was wet and loose. She plunged her fingers in until they disappeared. Then, not even daring to hope, she placed her other hand further up the wall and began to scratch again. Soon she had two firm hand-holds. Digging her feet in, she began to climb.

_Okay, Nabeshin. Here I come._

Almost immediately, the dirt gave way and she crashed painfully on her back. She didn't even pause to curse, but climbed back to her feet, and tried again.

This time, she made it to nearly three times her height before she slipped and fell. Her efforts had eroded the wall, making it more difficult than ever to climb. She sank back down. The foul, wet smell of the pit seemed to mock her.

_A young girl like you's not half-done fighting._

_But Master…!_

_Doesn't matter if it's a human heart or a really heavy rock. If you wanna move it, go ahead and move it!_

Then, closing her eyes, she saw Ilpalazzo's face. He was smiling. Glad that she was finally out of the way.

Growling deep in her throat, she jumped to her feet, plunged her hands wrist-deep in the wall, and began to climb at twice her previous speed. Even as she felt the soil collapsing she kept reaching higher, straining her arms, kicking at the avalanche forming underneath her. Soon she couldn't afford to fall; she would have died. She slipped, but only grew angrier and climbed four feet for every one she fell; and finally, after what seemed like hours of breathless scrambling, the outline of the trapdoor shone within reach of her fingertips.

Her stomach collapsed. She had no way of prying it open.

Bracing her feet on the unstable dirt, though, for the briefest moment, she pulled her hands free of the wall and threw her weight upwards. The door burst open and fresh air flooded down. Her desperate fingers clutched on the edge of the pit, and for a moment held her entire weight; then she brought herself up, gasping, by degrees, until she lay stretched out on the tile floor of the throne room.

She lay there a long time, fighting for air, clutching her trembling fingers together.

_I'm alive_, she thought, mutely wondering. _I'm alive, I'm alive._

* * *

"Man," groaned Iwata, scratching underneath his waiter's apron, "what're high-paid city employees like _us_ doing out _here_, literally in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night? That's what _I'd_ like to know." 

He and Sumiyoshi stood behind the counter of the small all-night diner, otherwise empty. It had once catered to a large crowd of truckers and other cross-country travelers, but now its only customers were those few who, for whatever rare business, made the trip across the wasteland formerly called F City. It stood near the edge of that wasteland, within sight of its crippled skyline.

Sumiyoshi looked up from cleaning the bacon fryer. _It aint that complicated_, he said. _We're working undercover, deep in ACROSS territory, to perform reconnaissance for Kabapu's planned counterinvasion, which should begin any day now. Weren't you listenin' during the briefing?_

Iwata looked quizzically at the ceiling. "I dunno. I just suddenly felt like prompting you to explain why we were here – almost as if for someone else's benefit. Kinda weird, man, huh?"

_Agreed_, said Sumiyoshi, and returned to his work.

It was nearly midnight. There had been no customers in hours, and Iwata thought his eyes were playing tricks on him when he saw the girl. She appeared at the edge of the parking lot, like a wild dog – and at first he assumed she was – walking unsteadily, huge clouds of dust trailing out behind her. Iwata blinked.

"Hey, Sumiyoshi."

_Yeah? _

He pointed. "Am I going crazy, or—"

The girl reached the door and pushed inside. An overpowering, fetid smell accompanied her, and Iwata clenched his nose. Her jeans were streaked with dirt, and what looked like a nice leather jacket had been ruined. Still, she approached the counter and seated herself demurely. Iwata stared. The girl coughed, then smiled brightly at him, as if nothing were out of order.

"May I have a glass of water please ?" she said.

* * *

Scratching his head, and sitting his favorite easy chair, Watanabe read the note for the seventh time. 

_Dear Mister Watanabe, _

(even after four years of marriage, she had trouble letting go of certain formalities)

_Please excuse my irresponsible behavior. However, something very important has come up which I have to take care of right away. I'm afraid it's a secret! __J I really am very sorry for having to leave on such abrupt notice. I know that you worry about me. But there is nothing to worry about, and please tell E.E. that Mommy is fine and will return very soon. Please don't be angry with me, and remember to wash the dishes, and don't let E.E. stay up too late, and I really will take care of myself._

_Respectfully,_

_Your Miss Ayasugi_

_P.S. Remember, E.E. is only allowed to have one cookie a day! We don't compromise, even if she sulks._

As much as he told himself that he respected Miss Ayasugi's independence, his first reaction was a spasm of horror. It was dangerous for Miss Ayasugi to go out shopping for vegetables, let alone – go off to wherever she was going off to! Not to mention that sometimes she seemed unaware of her own less-than-robust health. Still, he had no choice but to trust her judgment.

It had something to do with that phone call she had received last night, he knew. She had been upset, and hadn't told him why.

After reading the letter several more times, concentrating on its little endearments and on her insistences that she would back soon, his wild dread began to relax. Miss Ayasugi would never be involved in anything stupidly dangerous. Besides, the car was still outside, so she could only travel so far.

After all, he told himself, it wasn't as if she would rent a car and drive north for miles into the scorching desert, which was like poison to her constitution, the fierce wind whipping her hair around her bloodless face, on a mission of desperate revenge against the man who had executed one of her oldest and dearest friend, now, was it? Ha, ha!

Setting the last of his doubts to rest with this amusingly improbable scenario, Watanabe reclined his chair. She might be back within a few hours.

* * *

_Hyatt's preview_: "Hello, loyal viewers! It seems Excel-sempai is feeling a bit exhausted at the moment from her ordeals, so the director has asked Hyatt to fill in by reading this 'preview.' Unfortunately, Hyatt has never read a preview before, so please bear with me! It would appear that our next episode, 'Regret,' will contain many elements sure to be pleasing to viewers such as yourselves! I'm not quite sure what elements those might be, but I believe our director. Perhaps he means the fact that I will be appearing in this story for the first time since Chapter One, although Hyatt is far too modest to suggest such a thing herself. Please tune in next week, and we hope you enjoy Death Rides a Bicycle!" 


	9. Regret

AN: Yeah, I peg Key for a big Doors fan.

8. Regret

Noon. The shade provided by the trailer had retreated all morning, until its border touched Key's boots. He sat with his knees and forearms in the sun, watching the blinding landscape and thinking.

Almost at the edge of his sight, he marked a bicycle, lying on its side, half-covered by sand. By tomorrow it would be gone entirely.

Hadn't Eliot said something about this?

_I will show you water in the shade of this rock…I will show you fear in a handful of dust._

High in the air, a crow marked him. It came down in a wary circle, keeping its distance.

_Not dead yet_, he thought, with a smile. He watched it alight with a nervous start on the upraised seat of the bicycle. It ruffled its wings, as if to show it had settled by accident, passing through; meanwhile it watched him carefully for signs of expiration.

"Are you a messenger from the Spirit World?" he muttered. "What tidings?"

He stood. Startled, the crow launched itself haphazardly, and escaped.

_Perhaps it means I should follow. _

All morning, he had been meditating on one subject; and as he entered the trailer, brushing away the sand that had settled on his arms, he thought he knew the answer. It was something, anyway, to be sure of something. Wasn't it.

_I may not understand myself_, he thought, _but I understand you – Ilpalazzo._

He lifted his guitar off the dirty cot where his master had slept before him. He had replaced the broken string and tuned it, and began to pick out a melody, haltingly; standing in his doorway at high noon, in the heart of the desert, feeling the presence of the music.

"This one goes out to you, Lord Ilpalazzo," he said out loud. "Wherever you are."

He played for the benefit of the dunes and mesas, and the crow, still wheeling around somewhere, looking out for its midday meal. It was a familiar tune. He played reflectively, not loudly, looking alternately at the sand and the sky.

"_Don't you love her madly…Don't you need her badly…_"

He spotted the car on the southern horizon when its was still a plume of dust. _Two visitors in one day. How remarkable. _Watching it, he continued to play.

"_Don't you love her ways…Tell me what you say…Don't you love her madly…Wanna be her Daddy…Don't you love her as she's walkin' out the door…Like she did one thousand times before_…"

The car made its way down the same route, though Key couldn't know, that That Man had taken not long ago in his last-ditch attempt to reason with his delinquent underling.

"_All your love…All your love…All your love…is…"_"

Now he could make it out: an old black Pontiac, with a soaring firebird beautifully painted on the hood. Still playing, he raised his eyebrows.

"_All your love is gone…So sing a lonely song…From a deep blue dream_—"

The car pulled up within a stone's throw of the trailer. He could make out the driver's hair, and her pale complexion. _Ah. So she did come, after all. _He let his pick drop, and held the guitar loosely on his hip as she climbed out and approached him, shading her eyes against the sun.

Key smiled. "Ex-Agent Hyatt. Tell me, what's one of the angels doing so far from heaven's gates?"

"Oh, Mister Key! I hope I haven't come at an inconvenient time; I really meant to give notice."

She was alarmingly pale, but he had never seen her look so – dapper.

"That's quite a _ensemble_ you've got there. You could run for Prime Minister."

"Oh, Mister Key is far too kind!" Hyatt glanced down at the sleek black business suit, with its its flared lapels and sleeves. It made her shoulders and bust jut out fearsomely, and her waist shrink almost to nothing. "It seemed appropriate for the occasion of calling on an old colleague."

In her left hand, he noticed, she held a tall cut-glass pitcher, shining with lemonade like a great cut topaz. With the sun behind it, he could make out each individual ice cube. He eyed it with an almost sexual greed.

"And I see you brought me a present."

"Oh, yes. Hyatt now understands the parching effects of the desert all too well."

Key laughed. "If only the earth was peopled with your like, we sons of Man would have no cause to hope for heaven."

"Such a compliment is both more than Hyatt deserves and can understand."

Key noticed she had begun to sway on her feet, and beckoned to her.

"But would the Angel do me the honor of entering my tent? Otherwise, I fear she might expire under this blazing red hate they call the Sun."

"Don't mind if I—" She dabbed at the corner of her mouth. "—if I do…"

He watched her carefully as she passed through the doorway. No; not even one as considerate as her would drive hundreds of miles into the desert to bring a pitcher of lemonade to an old acquaintance.

"You've been thinking about it, haven't you?" he said.

Her back faced him as she set the lemonade on the kitchenette counter.

"Pardon me, Mister Key?"

"You've been thinking about it. What I told you last night."

She looked at the carpet. Her soft, irresolute face was difficult to read. "I appreciated your call. It was very kind of you to go out of your way to inform me of those events."

"Don't mention it." He set his guitar down, eyeing the lemonade again. "Nothing interests me so much as the constricted lashings of the human heart."

"Mister Key?"

Before explaining, he gestured toward the pitcher with a hopeful look at Hyatt. She nodded cheerfully.

"Oh, yes! Please help yourself."

Getting a glass down from the cabinet, he called over his shoulder: "One for you as well, Miss Hyatt?"

"Oh, no. Hyatt isn't particularly thirsty."

"Are you sure? You look rather—"

"Please don't mind me. I'm a little anemic, is all." Again, she touched the corner of her mouth, and gave an apologetic smile.

Key shrugged. He poured a tall glass of the dazzling lemonade, then held it up to the light. "This should be sweeter than the Living Water!—What shall we drink to?"

"To old friends," said Hyatt, with uncharacteristic surety.

"Very well. After all, who could ever forget Burns?—'_Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and ne-ver come to mind…Should auld acquaintance be forgot…And days of Auld Lang Syne…_'" He raised the rim—"Cheers!"—and drank it off in one gulp.

"Is the beverage to your liking, Mr. Key?"

"_Bravo_! A thirst-quenching tour-de-force." He slammed the empty glass on the counter, and began pouring another. "But I believe I was saying something…"

"'The constricted lashings of the human heart,' Mister Key?"

"Ah. Yes." He wet his lips. "The shipwrecked. The bereaved. The man with no place to go.—So tell me, Ex-Agent Hyatt. At this moment – which 'R' are you filled with?"

"Which are are?"

"Which R."

"Pardon me?"

Key sipped the lemonade. "Ambivalence. The heritage of our fall from Eden."

"I'm afraid Hyatt still doesn't understand."

"Now that your enemy is dead," said Key, turning the glass in his hand, "which _R_ are you filled with? Relief, that your child and husband are safe? Or Regret, that a woman who was once your closest friend – is dead?"

He watched her face. If there was any flicker of reaction, it passed too quickly for him to catch.

"Hyatt supposes – a little bit of both," she said, looking out the door.

Key smiled. "I'm sure you do feel – _a little bit of both_. But I asked you which you feel _more_. Relief? Or Regret?"

Hyatt looked at her shoes. "Regret," he said quietly.

"Hmm. I thought as much." Carrying his lemonade, he crossed to the window. "You know, I never met anyone quite like that girl…She had that _way_ about her. She lived like it was going out of style." He laughed. "But look what it's come to. The bell will toll; the worms will have their way."

Hyatt said something in answer, but Key was deafened by a sudden ringing in his ears.

"E-excuse me?"

Again, he saw Hyatt's lips move. Then he felt the first stab of pain.

"How do you like the lemonade, Mister Key?" Hyatt was asking sweetly. "Is it perhaps too sour for your taste?"

"_Ah—gah_!"

"Perhaps Hyatt should have added less strychnine?"

Key choked, clawing at the edge of the counter, and the glass slipped through his fingers. Splinters of glass shot across the floor, but he was deaf to the sound. He sunk to his knees in the pool of lemonade, his face growing livid.

"Hyatt—" he gasped. "I – I promise you—"

Hyatt put her foot on his chest. Slowly, looking him in the face, she pushed until he lay on his back. His arms locked in a rictus, he could only plead with his eyes.

"To me," she said quietly, "the word of a murderer like you – is worth _less_ than nothing." Her sharp heel pressed on his sternum. "But in these last, agonizing moments of life remaining to you, Mister Key, allow me to answer that your question of yours in more detail."

He shuddered and squirmed, like an insect stuck on a needle, and his eyes lashed wildly around the trailer.

"The _R_ I feel most," said Hyatt, "is Regret. Regret that Senior Excel – perhaps the bravest, most open-hearted woman Hyatt has ever known – met her end at the hands of a posturing, angst-ridden _nar-bastard_ like you." She removed her foot, and Key spasmed onto his side. "Senior deserved better."

Key coughed. He lay clutching his shoulders, an amazed look his eyes.

"I was angry with my foe," he muttered. "I told it not, my hate did grow…A plague on both your houses! Do not go gentle into that good night! _This is the end – beautiful friend, the end – it has to set you free, but you'll never follow me_…A horse, a horse; my kingdom for a horse!—Enough. The rest is silence."

His hands twitched; then he was still.

Hyatt stepped back. Here was no sound in the kitchen, or from the desert outside. Key lay with the lemonade seeping around him, like a bloodstain.

Hyatt lifted his guitar and smashed it over the counter. The neck snapped; strings shot apart with an angry hiss. She threw the wreck on the ground. The effort brought on a coughing fit, though, and she sunk to the floor, holding her knees.

"Hyatt is a traitor to ACROSS," she muttered. "And now she'll never hear Senior's cheerful voice again."

There was a crash outside the trailer, followed by an oddly familiar cry: "_Ow_!—What moron left a _bicycle_ there?"

Looking toward the doorway, Hyatt said hopefully: "And now Hyatt will never hear Senior's light, skipping footsteps again."

Shoes scraped on the path outside the trailer. Hyatt stood up.

"Never hear Senior opening the door…"

The door flew open.

"Excel Semp—!"

"_Excel punch_!"

Blood speckled the walls, and Hyatt sprawled on top of Key.

Excel, rubbing her knuckles, blinked at the unanticipated scene. _Broken guitar. Dead Hatchan. Dead-looking Key_. _Spilled liquid, ice cubes, broken glass._ She was about to kneel down and try to resuscitate Hyatt when a golden sparkle caught her eye. A pitcher of lemonade stood on the kitchen counter, like a gift from the heavens. Her situation was replaced to a simple fact:

_Excel is thirsty_!

Licking her lips, she reached for the pitcher.

* * *

**Great Will of the Macrocosm Reset!**

* * *

The door flew open. 

"Excel-semp—!"

"_Excel punch_!"

Blood speckled the walls, and Hyatt sprawled on top of Key.

Excel, rubbing her knuckles, blinked at the unanticipated scene. _Broken guitar. Dead Hatchan. Dead-looking Key_. _Spilled liquid, ice cubes, broken glass._ She was about to kneel down and try to resuscitate Hyatt when a golden sparkle caught her eye. A pitcher of lemonade stood on the kitchen counter, like a gift from the heavens. Her situation was replaced to a simple fact:

_Excel is thirsty_!

She shook her head. Examine corpses first; quench thirst later. She kneeled next to Hyatt, shaking her roughly:

"_Ne_, Hatchan! Come back to life already! I don't have all _day_."

After a moment, Hyatt's eyes opened calmly, as if after a long sleep. "Oh, Senior! Is it morning already?"

Excel sat back, heaving a sigh. "Jeez! You had me worried there."

She started, though, when Hyatt hugged her enthusiastically around the shoulders.

"H-hey! I don't wanna catch whatever _dies-every-five-seconds_ thing you've got! Personal space rules! Personal space rules!"

"Excel-sempai," said Hyatt, into her shoulder. "I thought…I would never see you again."

"Yeah, well; couldja find some other way to express that attitude? Like maybe telling me why Key's lying there, all dead and stuff?"

Hyatt pulled back, and her face darkened. "I thought he had killed you in cold blood, Senior. I hope I haven't made a mistake."

Excel stood up, huffing. "Oh, he tried to kill me, alright." She looked at the twisted, motionless body with mixed emotions. "_Pfft_. That loser didn't really think he'd succeed where _Lord_ _Ilpalazzo_ failed, did he?"

Hyatt was silent.

"Wow. You really – killed him?"

She nodded. "When he called to tell me you were dead, I was so angry. Hyatt had never experienced these feelings before – except once. I was so sorry that I hadn't helped you when you came to see me before; and now it was too late. But I had to do _something_. And I knew I wasn't suited for it. So – I tried to think what _you_ would do, Senior."

Still looking at Key, Excel whistled. "Really? Cause to tell you the truth, Hatchan, you probably handled the situation just a _teensy_ bit more smoothly than Excel would have." She looked at the smashed guitar. "Didja hit him with that?"

Hyatt shook her head, and indicated the lemonade.

"Oo-o-_oh_ – right. Y'know, I _really_ should have seen that coming. Close one, though."

"I never would have imagined I could do it," said Hyatt.

"Well, you did a pretty good job trying to poison _me_."

"I know. And I'm sorry."

They both regarded Key's body.

"He was ACROSS's Special Ops Director," said Hyatt. "And with Miss Cosette in custody…"

"…Basically, what you're saying is, ACROSS is _finito_."

The wind whistled through the open door. Excel stood scratching the back of her head.

"So, Senior," ventured Hyatt. "Which _R_ are you filled with?"

"_Heh_?"

"Which _R_ do you feel more? Relief? Or Regret?"

Excel turned away from the corpse. Now that she had accepted his death, a more basic reality, that she was in the same room as a dead guy, began to get to her. "I guess a little bit of both," she said.

Hyatt nodded. "Yes. Me too."

"Hey, Hatchan."

"Senior?"

"Can we step outside? Cause _that_—" she pointed at Key—"is _not_ Excel's idea pleasant surroundings."

"Of course, Senior."

Excel hopped down from the door, and stood on the spot where Key, not half an hour ago, had stood, smiling as he knew he had finally plumbed the secrets of his Master's heart. Hyatt let herself down more gently, and stood next to her, looking out at the unimpressed sweep of desert.

Excel sat on the stoop – again, in the same attitude that Key, and not long before him Lord Ilpalazzo himself, had occupied.

Hyatt looked down at her. "Senior, your hair is a mess."

Excel smiled weakly. "Pit-related mishap."

She looked up at Hyatt. "Hey. Nice suit, though."

Still standing, Hyatt ran her fingers through Excel's dirt-caked hair.

"Thank you, Senior."

"It makes your boobs look big."

"Although that wasn't my intention, Senior, Hyatt accepts the compliment."

"Hatchan."

"Senior?"

"Look. I'm – sorry, okay? I prob'ly shouldn't have hit you and said I'd kill your kid, just cause you wouldn't help me out. I mean—" She studied the sand. "If anyone knows about loyalty, it's me, right?"

Hyatt was in the process of twisting some of her hair into a braid. "There's no need for apologies, senior."

"I know you're my friend. If you don't wanna tell me where he is, then—"

"Lord Ilpalazzo has left the country," said Hyatt, calmly. "He was last sighted by authorities at Tokyo international airport, boarding a private jet."

Excel stopped, dumbfounded.

"In my personal opinion, Senior Excel, Lord Ilpalazzo has most probably fled to South America."

"_South_ America?"

"Yes. With all due respect to the hardworking and virtuous people of South America, where else might a wanted war criminal find sanctuary?"

"Huh. You got a good point there, Hatchan. Although the fact that one of the few characters who has yet to show up in this story hails from South America probably can't hurt, either."

"Senior has spoken the only truth."

"Well. Guess there's only one thing for it."

Gently brushing Hyatt's hands away from her hair, Excel got to her feet. The sun was setting. The white sand turned a softer shade, and the wall of the trailer reflected red.

"Hatchan."

"Senior?"

Excel bit her lip. "Well, not to pry, but – why'd you just tell me that?"

"I told you that I still feel loyalty toward Lord Ilpalazzo."

"Right. And you realize I'm gonna—"

"Yes." Hyatt smiled. "But how else will Lord Ilpalazzo ever see you again?"

* * *

Excel's preview: "Gosh, I'm – kinda choked up right now. But sentimentality is the hobgoblin of being doomed to repeat it, or something like that, so let's not forget what this story is all about: kissing!—I mean killing, _killing_! And there will certainly not be _any_ kissing in our next episode, "Face to Face," de_spite_ what that title may suggest, so _don't_ get your hopes up! You heard me!"

AN: O-o-okay, _long_ Author's Note.

I have to say, I like this chapter the best of any so far. It's got a good dramatic element, a good comedic element, and a good emotional element…of course, I don't know if people will agree with me…just thought I'd share.

Kids, don't try this at home! According to wikipedia, strychnine is one of the most bitter substances on earth, so your friend might notice when you slip it in his drink. Good old-fashioned cyanide is probably still your best bet, even if it does (I'm told) taste faintly of almonds.

_-Nar-bastard_ is officially my favorite word not in the English language. Nar-bastard!

I, uh, assume this is what girlfriends sound like when they talk to each other. I'm really just guessing here.

Sorry, South America!

Bonus points: who all is Key quoting in his death-speech?

Bonus bonus points: what three old maxims is Excel confusing in her preview?

Oh, and on the off-chance anyone is wondering why I update so quickly; I just write really fast, especially since I'm working from a Known Plot (as my last year's creative writing teacher would say). It's not like I have the whole thing done and am just uploading it one chapter at a time.

Thanks again, reviewers! Hope you're looking forward to the finale as much as I am. It should be pretty alright. It'll also be a couple of days since the next update, due to what I've got planned, but it'll be a big one.

Seriously, don't get your hopes up. You heard Excel.


	10. Face to Face

_I, Koshi Rikdo, for the sake of making this parody seem fully justified, hereby give my permission for every major character in Excel Saga who has not yet appeared to make an appearance in this chapter!_

**Stamp'd**

9. Face to Face

The trailer, miles from the nearest city, had seen more commerce in the past forty-eight hours than it had any reason to expect. Five visitors: two who had left, one who would never leave. Now, as Excel and Hyatt stood outside, a sixth visitor appeared on the horizon.

Excel narrowed her eyes. "Hey, Hatchan. You didn't bring a tail, didja?"

"Excuse me, Senior, but Hyatt isn't sure what costume-playing has to do with the matter at hand."

"Naw, what I mean is—"

Whoever came down the road that first That Man, then Hyatt had traveled, they moved faster than any ordinary human.

"—what's up with that _hopping girl_?" Excel finished.

"Oh. Oh my."

The girl, visible first as a punkish tuft of purple hair, came skipping down the road. They heard her singing merrily to herself: "_De-li-ver Sho-chan's me-ssage, that's what I'm gonna do!—Whe-ther in fire or hail or snow, the post will still go through!—It's cla-ssified top-secret, encoded with a key!—A cou-ri-er girl is what I love – to – be!_"

The grinning, flat-chested catgirl bore Kozo Shioji's unmistakable stamp.

"_I_ get it," muttered Excel. "So that's his preference…"

"Could the message be for the late Mr. Key, Senior Excel?"

"Nah. From the look of that thing, I'm pretty sure it's for me."

Ropponmatsu II skipped to a halt in front of Excel, snapped to attention, and flashed her double V-signs. "Hiya big sister! You're Excel Excel, right?"

"Yep. Hopping Girl, this is my friend Hatchan. Hatchan, this is – Hopping Girl? Made by a guy named Shioji, if Excel's learned _anything_ this past week."

Hopping Girl laughed. "My name's Ropponmatsu, big sister!"

"Robo—?

"_Rop-pon-matsu_."

"Yeah, whatever. So are you gonna cough up the message, Shorty?"

Crossing her arms, Ropponmatsu sulked. "Not until big sister calls me by my real name."

"Jeez, Ace! You're pretty touchy for a courier-bot."

"_Ropponmatsu_!"

"Look, Chuckles, Excel has had a pretty rough day, alright? So—"

"_Waugh_!—Big sister's mean!"

**Thwack.**

"I'm gonna hit you, Sprout!"

"Don't say that _after_ you've hit me!" wailed Ropponmatsu, holding her head. "And it's _Ropponmatsu_!"

"Fine! Ropponmatsu! Have you got a message from _sensei_ or not!"

Instantly regaining her good humor, Ropponmatsu grinned. "Actually, big sister, I can do ya one better!" The cat-ears on her scalp extended with a whir; her eyes went suddenly blank. "Opening remote communications circuit," she said in altered voice; and a moment later Shioji's unmistakable tones came out of her mouthpiece.

"Miss Excel?—Can you hear me? I'm afraid I've never tested this feature before."

"Do you put remote communications circuits in _everything_?"

"Why, it's the thing of the future! Thing of the future. Thing of the future. Thing of the—sorry. What I meant to say was, I think of it as a way of putting as much distance as possible between my courageous intellect and cowardly physical body. No need to put myself in any actual danger, after all."

"Makes sense. So what's up?"

"Well." Shioji's voice became more sober. "We hadn't heard from you in some time, so we were naturally concerned. There have been reports that ACROSS's Director of Special Operations, a man named Key—"

"Yeah, yeah." Excel flapped her hand. "Been there, done that. Bought the T-shirt."

"Then – am I to understand that Key is dead?"

She nodded.

Although Ropponmatsu's face remained static, they heard warmth creep into Shioji's voice. "Miss Excel Excel, as an employee of the Japanese government, allow me to offer you my warmest congratulations on behalf of that body. You may have single-handedly won the day for the forces of Love & Peace."

Excel blinked. "How's that, _sensei_?"

"The Daitenzin and Self-Defense Force have mobilized, and That Man's forces are on the run. After four years of brutal civil war, a free Japan is once again in sight. We all hope for a tomorrow free of oppression and terror!"

"Well – that's good, I guess."

"You know," interjected Hyatt, "this could be only Hyatt's opinion, but there is something rather disturbing about the voice of a middle-aged man emanating from the body of a prepubescent girl."

"Seconded, Hatchan."

"Then I'll make things brief," said Shioji, with a smirk in his voice. "While we men of science are rarely moved by such – _ordinary_ considerations as duty, I can't help but feel that, while you've made good on your commitment to us – as per our agreement – we have yet to make good on ours. By which I mean, of course, that while ACROSS's backbone may have been broken, your own quarry – Lord Ilpalazzo himself – has yet eluded you."

"I guess that's about the size of things."

"And believe me, we regret this turn of events nearly as much as you."

"So. How do you purpose we solve this dilemma?"

"Well!" The force of Shioji's exclamation jolted the Ropponmatsu. "It just so happens – I have a solution."

For some time, as Excel listened intently to Shioji, Hyatt had been glancing around in the attempt to discover the source of a mysterious noise. It was a buzzing like a motorcycle – but the desert was empty in all directions.

"You'll buy me a plane ticket?"

"Now, now; that's hardly the way we do things."

Hyatt tapped Excel on the shoulder. "Senior…?"

A shadow fell over both of them. The plane streaked over the trailer, scattering sand like water on the surface of a pond. It looped around twice, losing momentum, until it finally taxied to a gentle stop in front of them.

Excel had clamped her arms over her head. "_Billy Jean_!"

Shioji chuckled. "When my little one finally located you, I took the liberty of having my elder take charge of your vehicle."

"My…?"

Looking up, Excel examined the plane. It was an eyesore, she decided; and what was more, its pink-and-teal color scheme was familiar.

"Oh. It's the 6050."

"That's correct," said Shioji, smugly.

"It – turns into a plane?"

Ropponmatsu nodded.

"You never mentioned that."

"Well, you never asked."

The plane's cockpit, formed from the robot's chest plate, slid back to reveal another purple-haired robot.

"Miss Excel, Miss Hyatt, allow me to introduce you to my elder: Ropponmatsu One."

Ropponmatsu I, still standing in the cockpit, bowed. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Yeah, yeah, pleased to meetcha too, Ropponmatsu."

Ropponmatsu II's eyes suddenly flickered, and her high adolescent voice shrieked: "So you'll call _her_ by her real name, huh? Big sister—"

There was a moment of internal struggle; her ears flapped open and shut; she spoke in alternating voices:

"Now see here young lady—!"

"I'm not _li_-ste-ning! _Lah-lah lah-lah_—"

"—ought to be grateful—"

"_Wah_! _Wah_! I hate you! I hate you!""

She struck herself several times on the side of the head, and Shioji reasserted himself: "I'm sorry the two of you had to see that shameful display."

Ropponmatsu I climbed carefully down from the cockpit. "Cargo delivered safely," she addressed Shioji, in the person of Ropponmatsu II.

"Excellent work, Ropponma—"

"What about me, huh? _Huh_? What about _me_?" Ropponmatsu II shouted at herself. "Praise me, praise _me_!"

"I'll have a little talk with _you_ when you get back, little missy," said Shioji. "Do I have to deactivate your free will module again?"

"N-no! I'll be good."

Shioji cleared his throat. "Now, Miss Excel. Allow me to make myself clear. If you have information on Lord Ilpalazzo's whereabouts, I hereby give you my permission for you to take the 6050 to the ends of the earth in pursuit of him."

"I understand."

Hyatt smiled. "That is a very generous offer, Mister Shioji."

"Don't mention it. Provided that you forget all about that little _incident_—"

Ropponmatsu II asserted herself a final time: "Big sister, don't listen to him! He's a _bad_ daddy and he never lets me do what _I_ want! I'm gonna run away! I'm—!"

She struck herself so forcefully that sparks flew out of her right ear, and she collapsed, insensible. Ropponmatsu I sprinted from the plane.

"Sister unit!"

"Well, I guess I don't get to say goodbye," said Excel.

"I will convey your best wishes to Doctor Shioji," said Ropponmatsu I, lifting her sister gently and settling the body over her shoulder. "I regret that the two of you must part in such an undignified fashion. Doctor Shioji is a good man, if – eccentric. I am certain he wishes you luck as well."

"Yeah, you guys take care," said Excel, eyeing the plane.

The routing of ACROSS's armies – which _armies_, she reflected, she had never seen – and the rebuilding of Japan, seemed insignificant compared to the task ahead of her.

"Farewell," said Ropponmatsu, turning her back.

Excel waved. "See ya." As the Ropponmatsus vanished into the desert, Excel turned to Hyatt: "This has all been awfully convenient, huh, Hatchan?"

Night was settling in. The air was cooling, and the lurid shape of the plane was growing dark and uniform.

"A number of issues were resolved in a very brief amount of time," Hyatt agreed.

The desert sighed. Somewhere, they heard a wild dog scrabbling in the sand. The faint smell of lemonade still drifted from the trailer door.

Excel shrugged. "So who's complaining?"

"Will you be leaving now, Senior?"

"Yep."

"For South America?"

"Sure. It can't be _that_ big, right? I'll find him." She clenched and unclenched her right hand. "And when I do…well."

"I wish you luck, Senior."

"Yeah, well – thanks."

They embraced again, briefly, then Excel stepped back. The outline of a full moon hung over the trailer.

* * *

"And now, abruptly, I'm in South America."

Excel stood in the village square, next to her grounded plane, subject to the uninterested stares of several locals and wild dogs. She glanced around at the low-slung adobe buildings. With no way of communicating with Shioji, and no knowledge of how to transform the 6050 from a plane back into a combat-ready robot, she would have to find another weapon.

_But wait! If _South_ America is anything like _North_ America, deadly firearms can be purchased conveniently at any time!_

**Controversial statement!**

Turning around, she spotted a street vendor lounging under a promising sign: _Guns! Pistols, rifles, double-barreled shotguns!_—in both English and Spanish. His wares were assembled on a folding table in front of him.

_Thank God for Western Civilization, or the lack thereof! _She skipped over, and the fat, grinning vendor tipped his hat. One pistol caught her eye: compact, silvery, and oddly familiar. She realized it bore a resemblance to—_his_ gun. The phrase 'poetic justice' was somewhat beyond her ken, but she understood the principle.

The man spoke to her in his incomprehensible foreign language. Smiling back, she pointed at the gun, and held up several fingers: _How much?_

"You – have – ID?" the vendor asked, in broken Japanese. "Permit?"

Excel shrugged.

The vendor smiled again. "_It's okay_," he said, in Spanish, "_I trust you, stranger_."

Again: _How much?_

"_You kidding? Anymore, I can't _give_ this stuff away. Gimme a little kiss and we'll call it even._"

He tapped his cheek. Excel, understanding, pecked it; and he passed the gun over the counter.

"Thanks, Mister!"

He made a gesture as if to say, _Go on, try it out!_

Aiming it experimentally into the air, she pulled the trigger; it fired loud and clean. Bystanders applauded and cheered.

The vendor laughed. "_She's a natural-born American!_"

Excel stuck the weapon in her belt. As she turned back to the plane, she stopped, spotting a familiar face.

A muscular, dark-skinned man came pushing an empty wheelbarrow down the street. He hummed to himself, at peace even with the blistering heat and buzzing mosquitoes.

Excel hailed him: "Pedro-_san_!"

He turned, bursting into a grin. "Excel-_san_!"

Abandoning the wheelbarrow, he dashed toward her.

"_Uh – eh – huh…guarandoo_!"—they executed their fist-pounding ritual, pointed at each other, and laughed.

"I never expected to see you here in my own native, unnamed country, Miss Excel! When I was a poor immigrant laborer in Japan, the bonds of warmth and friendship we formed left me with such pleasant memories of that country!"

"Excel seems to remember…something about a _fire_…what could it be?—But I got no time to think about that right now!"

"Yes, yes! What brings you to this humble land, Miss Excel?"

"Ilpalazzo," she said. "Where's Ilpalazzo?"

"Ah." Pedro's smile grew wistful. "You must be – Excel." He blinked. "You know, I never made the connection until just now. I never imagined that _his_ Excel might also be _my_ Excel. Although I suppose _Excel_ is not really a common name.—He talks about you often, you know. When he drinks at the cantina here."

Excel's ears perked up. "He does?"

"Oh, yes. I can see the attraction, you know." He pinched her cheek. "My pretty little girl has grown into a very beautiful young woman!"

"Aw, Pedro!—Wa-ait. _Attraction_?"

"I knew," said Pedro, shaking his head. "From the moment I first saw that man. He was a dreamer; a romantic. A fool for love."

"_Love_?—Lord Ilpalazzo is a man of ideals! And morals!" Excel insisted, forgetting her grudge for the briefest instant.

"Ah. Love for an ideal; for another; for oneself. It's all so complicated. Pedro can only describe what he saw in that man's face. But you know," he added, smiling again. "Being a fool for a woman like you – is always the right thing to do."

Excel looked down and away, biting her lip.

"So. Where is he?"

"In the big empty house on the edge of town. You can't miss it. All the dogs stay away from there.—But I can't help but notice that pistol in your belt, Miss Excel."

"Oh, this? Yeah. Ah heh-heh."

"I take it that's no souvenir."

She shrugged.

Pedro's smile saddened again. "This is a matter between the two of you. But I'm not sorry I pointed you in his direction. It's what he would have wanted."

"Now that I don't believe."

Unknowingly, still smiling, he repeated Hyatt's words: "How else is he ever going to see you again?"

* * *

The quiet mansion stood just out of sight of the town's lights. Pedro had been right; none of the ubiquitous wild dogs skulked around it. There was no sign of life at all, not even a car in front – except for a single light burning in a ground-floor window. That was enough.

Unholstering the gun, she crept over the moist jungle ground. She was prepared for another ambush. Uncomfortable, squirming feelings had begun to manifest themselves, though, making it more difficult than ever to concentrate – but she couldn't fail now, when she had come so far. Now that she thought about it, she had never successfully completed a mission in her life; never done anything right.

So. This would be the first time.

She put her ear to the cool wood of the door; there was no sound inside. She kicked her way in, leveling the gun. The foyer was empty. Beyond, in a spacious living room, modern furniture suggested the recent occupant. The light she had seen was to her right. She began to move, taking slow, light steps.

He might have heard the door; or he might have assumed it was just a crash in the jungle. It all depended on whether he was expecting her or not. Given the way he had always – _always_ underestimated her, she assumed he wasn't. Fine.

The light came from the kitchen doorway. Stopping outside, Excel strained her ears:

"Ha, ha!—Good girl," came Ilpalazzo's smooth, unmistakable voice.

So he wasn't alone. Great. Probably with some local girl he'd picked up; the thought made her skin crawl. That only meant she might have to kill him quickly, instead of savoring it.

The thought brought on a last surge of panic. Was she _really_ going to fire that gun?—She couldn't answer herself one way or the other. She couldn't pull the trigger, even in her mind, but she remembered what the sight of his face had done to her. Perhaps she could do it then. _Okay, I'll surprise myself_, she thought bitterly.

She stepped into the doorway.

It was a homey kitchen, with handcarved wooden furniture and an ambient light. Ilpalazzo was kneeling by the sink, holding a paper bag under his arm. He smiled indulgently as a small white dog lapped food out of its dish. He faced half-away from her, and didn't look up.

"Good girl," he repeated.

He had discarded his cape, but his old uniform hung on a smaller, thinner body than she remembered. His lavender hair glowed soft in the moonlight coming through the windows.

She crept up within a foot of him, amazed that he still didn't notice her, and aimed the gun at his head. _And now I pull the trigger_, she thought. She didn't.

Ilpalazzo petted the dog, and it yipped happily. Excel recognized the dog, a moment before he said:

"I was wondering when you might show up. Shame you're too late to join me for dinner. Eh, Ex-Agent Excel?"

He still didn't turn around.

She could still fire, but she knew she never would. She let the gun drop with a dull, wet click on the kitchen floor, and hung her head.

The dog recognized Excel. With a bark of terror, it bolted across the kitchen and lay cowering against the far wall.

"Hi, Menchi," she said weakly.

Ilpalazzo stood. "Are you and this animal acquainted? I came across it in the ruins of F City. I was in need of a companion at the time, and so on a whim I adopted her." He set the bag of kibble on the counter. "Dogs are remarkable, aren't they? Give them a little food, a little attention, and they'll follow you to the ends of the earth."

He still wouldn't face her.

"You and I have unfinished business," said Excel.

He turned, nudged his glasses up his nose, and smiled.

"My dear, you couldn't be more correct."

* * *

_Excel's preview_: "…"

AN: _That whole bit with Ropponmatsu II and Shioji's Parental Control Issues might seem like a throwaway gag, but I like to think of it as a suggestion that he may be growing up._

Okay, here's the deal. I wrote – not one, but two, count 'em _two_ endings; and while I might have my own preference between them, I think both of them fit the outline of the story equally well. It's like one of those choose-your-own-ending books.

So, here's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Just how _do_ you read that character?

_Loyalty_, of course. Go on to Chapter Ten, "I'd Rather be a Hammer than a Nail."

_Love_, of course. Skip ahead to Chapter Eleven, "Half a Person."

Of course, you may end up reading both of them anyway. In which case you can imagine that they both 'happen,' and the Great Will of the Macrocosm does a reset before the one you like better.

Or maybe, in fact, the two endings compliment each other, and in a sense each happens simultaneously…but we won't speculate.


	11. I'd Rather be a Hammer Than a Nail

10. I'd Rather be a Hammer Than a Nail

She watched, standing, as he poured out a glass of wine.

"It was polite of you to come through the door," he remarked. "After what I'm told took place at the House of Blue Leaves, I half-expected a robot to come crashing through my roof."

Her tongue felt numb. "I left my Pfadfinderin back in town."

"Ah." He lifted the glass to his lips. "And how is Doctor Kabapu?"

"He's good."

"Is he still the same tedious fool as ever?"

She nodded.

"And have Doctor Shioji's – _habits_ improved at all?"

She shook her head.

"You know," he said, laughing quietly. "I never would have expected to see you fallen in with that bunch." He examined her face in the low light, and she felt herself blush. "You've changed."

"So have you," she said.

He glanced at his reflection in the windowpane. "I suppose I have. But how I forget myself!—Please do have a seat. What a poor host I am." With a sweep of his hand, he indicated one of the handsome chairs at the kitchen table. "I don't think wine is quite appropriate for one of your still-tender years. But could I offer you milk?"

"Sure."

Feeling like a child, she took a seat with her legs pressed close together. He set the glass in front of her – a long-stemmed wine glass, like his own, but filled with milk. She couldn't help smiling.

In the corner, Menchi trembled with her tail wrapped around her legs.

"Heavens!" Ilpalazzo nudged his glasses. "What did you _do_ to that poor thing?"

"_Emergency food supply_," Excel muttered.

Ilpalazzo lifted the dog and cradled her gently in his arms, making soothing noises.

"There, there…it's alright. The scary lady isn't going to hurt you."

Excel sipped her milk, on the verge of tears.

"Does this belong to you?"

She turned, to see Ilpalazzo holding her handgun by the barrel.

"…Yeah."

He set it on the table in front of her. "Well do keep track of it, then. I so like to keep the place tidy."

He sat across from her, still holding the terrified Menchi. He looked so small without his cloak, she thought again. So defenseless.

"I think you'll be pleased to know that I've received word from Miss Cosette Sara in Tokyo." Casually, he removed a postcard from the breast of his uniform. "Would you like to hear?"

Excel nodded.

After sipping his wine again, Ilpalazzo read: "'Dearest Lord Ilpalazzo.'" He stopped to laugh. "Such a formal girl!—'Thank you for the letter of the eighteenth. I have quite recovered, although I was the cause of some concern at the hospital when I attempted to slay Doctor Takano with my hairpin. Since then I have been removed to a different ward. I am now in the company of other children who, like myself, experienced trauma at an early age, and subsequently exhibit homicidal behavior. The doctors are trying to cure us through a program of fresh air, exercise, and arts & crafts. The other day I received a very nice compliment from Nurse Kusaka on my macaroni collage of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian. I don't know I feel about 'recovery,' but I suppose it might be pleasant if, tomorrow, I could look at a kitten without imagining the way its blood would spill from its severed throat.'

'Your truly,

'Cosette.'

"A happy ending. Wouldn't you agree?"

Excel nodded.

"Yes," he repeated, reflectively, tapping the postcard on the table. "A very happy ending."

He stood. Menchi leapt out of his arms, and took once again to the corner. "Now. When it comes to you – and _us_ – I have a few unanswered questions. So before this tale of bloody revenge reaches its climax, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to tell me the truth.

"But therein lies the dilemma!—For, when it comes to the subject of you, I believe you to be _truly and utterly_ incapable of telling the truth – especially to me, and – least of all, to yourself.

"And, when it comes to the subject of me, I am – truly and utterly incapable – of believing anything you say."

"How do you purpose we solve this dilemma?" Excel said dully.

"Well!—It just so happens, I have a solution."

With a flourish, he produced a gun – _treachery_! flashed through her mind – and fired. Instead of a bang, through, there was a quiet pop, and she stared at the four-inch hypodermic dart protruding from her arm. There was only a slight itch of pain, followed by a more unpleasant draining sensation.

She sputtered. "W-what – did you just _shoot_ me with!"

"My greatest invention," he said, replacing the gun inside a cabinet. "Or at least, my favorite. I call it the Undisputed Truth. Twice as effective as sodium pentathol, without – any of those messy side-effects. Except you may perhaps experience—" he waved his hand airily—"a slight wave of euphoria?"

"Euphoria?" she gasped. "—_No_."

"Mm." Ilpalazzo smiled again. "That's a shame.—Don't touch it! It's already begun to set in. You'll only make it sting."

With a grimace, she put her hands on the table. "Fine."

She expected a sadistic smile, but as he returned to the table, his expression was grave. He sat with his hands laced in front of him. "I imagine you may have one or two questions of your own. After I've asked mine," he said, "I'll allow you to ask yours."

She nodded.

"So…" He nudged his glasses. "My first question."

Excel waited, trying to meet his eyes. He looked resolutely at the cream-colored wall.

"Did you ever really believe that you would be able to kill me?"

"No."

"Then why did you come here?"

_Because I hate you_, she thought, but her mouth independently formed the words: "B-because I love you."

He glanced again at the window. Outside, the leaves of the palms showed soft and bright, like metal. Seeming to go off track, he said: "I always told you that the world was corrupt. Isn't that right?"

She nodded.

"But that isn't the truth. I realize that, now."

"But – it _is_ the truth! Everything you told me is true! About – the governments, and…"

"Haven't you realized?" he said gently. "There is suffering in the world; but the world is not corrupt. Hard, hateful men are the cause of suffering – men like myself."

She had traveled thousands of miles, and overcome deadly obstacles, all for the sake of bringing her vengeance to him; but the admission still shocked her. "Lord Ilpalazzo…"

"Yes," he said, as if he hadn't heard. "Like the man who went into the world to seek treasure, and in the end found it buried in his own backyard – I sought to destroy corruption, but it was my own heart which was corrupt."

"Lord Ilpalazzo."

"Righteous indignation turned to vapid cruelty. Determination became fanaticism. Idealism rotted until only dogmatism remained." He spoke calmly, as if he come to terms with it out here in the jungle; here, where it was quiet and peaceful, and there were no obstacles between a man and his conscience. If he felt guilt, he had also moved beyond it, to a state she couldn't fully understand.

He looked at her, smiling. "Thank you. I think I understand something that I didn't before."

"Lord…?"

"Love written as loyalty. It's true, isn't it? My ideals corrupted; but yours never did. Even now, you are as loyal to me – and to ACROSS – as ever. Isn't it true?"

"Yes."

"And if I ordered you to take your own life, with that gun in front of you – you would do it. Wouldn't you?"

"Y-yes."

"Ah. My poor Excel. My poor, dear Excel."

She felt a light pressure on her shoulder. Opening her eyes, she saw his hand there. It was a stern, paternal gesture, but it was no less painful for that.

"Y-you said I could ask q-questions."

He opened his hands. "By all means."

"W-_why_?" She cut her eyes at the gun. "Why'd you _do_ it?"

"Don't you understand?" He smiled. "I'm not a good person."

"No!—Lord Ilpalazzo is a wonderful person.

"Lord Ilpalazzo is my _favorite_ person.

"B-but every once in a while – you can be a real dick."

He laughed. Then, sobering, said: "Excel-_kun_. You know what you have to do."

"Lord…?"

"It was your loyalty to ACROSS which led you to destroy it. Now you have to finish what you began."

She stared at him.

"For the sake of the Ideal." When she still stared, he went on: "I know that Nabeshin taught you the Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique. You know what you have to do."

Slowly, horror spreading over her face, she shook her head.

"Agent Excel! I order you to kill me."

She shook her head.

"Kill me."

_No._

"You can do it, Excel," he said calmly, with his hand on her shoulder. His mouth was forming into an unbearable smile. "I believe in you."

_No._

"You can do it, Excel. I believe in you."

She looked at her hands. There was a long silence.

"You know," she finally said, in a strangled voice. "If I had to make a list – five years ago – of impossible things that would never happen…_you_, performing the coup-de-grace on _me_, by busting a bullet in my bust…would've been right at the top." She looked up. "I would've been wrong. Wouldn't?"

"Oh.—I'm sorry; was that a question? Yes, on the subject of impossible things that could never happen – I'm afraid you would have been wrong. Excel-_kun_."

She smiled. Then she struck out – once, twice, three-four – then pulling back her hand, like a snake about to strike (although it trembled) – the last blow.

Ilpalazzo shuddered, gasping. Excel looked at her own fingertips in disbelief.

It was the first time she had ever touched him; and the last. Her mind lingered on the fleeting sensation. Then he was smiling at her, simply and kindly, and a trickle of blood worked down from the corner of his mouth.

"_Excellent_," he whispered.

She stared.

"How do I look?" he said, smiling.

She smiled helplessly back. "A bit like Hatchan."

He laughed, and the laugh became a cough, and more blood ran from his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his sleeve.

The dam broke. Excel sat weeping like a little girl, making no effort to hold it in. She watched as he stood, straightened his uniform with a tug, and touched his glasses.

She stood. As he turned his back, she raised her arm over her head, calling out: "_Heil—Ilpalazzo_!"

He had already begun to walk, and didn't turn back. She tried to count the steps, but before she knew it he had collapsed as if unglued. Lord Ilpalazzo lay on the floor underneath the window, motionless, in a pool of moonlight.

She understood the meaning of the words: _never again_. She sunk back on the chair, put her head on the table, and decided she would sit there forever.

After hours, or minutes, rocked by her own hard sobbing, she became aware of another noise. She opened her eyes in a wild hope: but he lay the same as before. She looked down. Menchi was rubbing her cheek against her ankle, whining softly.

She bent down, expecting the dog to bolt, but Menchi allowed herself to be picked up. Excel held her close. Menchi touched her chin with her small, rough tongue; and in spite of herself, Excel laughed.

"_I missed you, girl_," she murmured.

Menchi yipped.

Excel stood up, Menchi in her arms. Turning her back on the window, she faced the doorway, and began the long, slow, difficult walk away.


	12. Half a Person

11. Half a Person

She watched, standing, as he poured out a glass of wine.

"It was polite of you to come through the door," he remarked. "After what I'm told took place at the House of Blue Leaves, I half-expected a robot to come crashing through my roof."

Her tongue felt numb. "I left my Pfadfinderin back in town."

"Ah." He lifted the glass to his lips. "And how is Doctor Kabapu?"

"He's good."

"Is he still the same tedious fool as ever?"

She nodded.

"And have Doctor Shioji's – _habits_ improved at all?"

She shook her head.

"You know," he said, laughing quietly. "I never would have expected to see you fallen in with that bunch." He examined her face in the low light, and she felt herself blush. "You've changed."

"So have you," she said.

He glanced at his reflection in the windowpane. "I suppose I have. But how I forget myself!—Please do have a seat. What a poor host I am." With a sweep of his hand, he indicated one of the handsome chairs at the kitchen table. "I don't think wine is quite appropriate for one of your still-tender years. But could I offer you milk?"

"Sure."

Feeling like a child, she took a seat with her legs pressed close together. He set the glass in front of her – a long-stemmed wine glass, like his own, but filled with milk. She couldn't help smiling.

In the corner, Menchi trembled with her tail wrapped around her legs.

"Heavens!" Ilpalazzo nudged his glasses. "What did you _do_ to that poor thing?"

"_Emergency food supply_," Excel muttered.

Ilpalazzo lifted the dog and cradled her gently in his arms, making soothing noises.

"There, there…it's alright. The scary lady isn't going to hurt you."

Excel sipped her milk, on the verge of tears.

"Does this belong to you?"

She turned, to see Ilpalazzo holding her handgun by the barrel.

"…Yeah."

He set it on the table in front of her. "Well do keep track of it, then. I so like to keep the place tidy."

He sat across from her, still holding the terrified Menchi. He looked so small without his cloak, she thought again. So defenseless.

"I think you'll be pleased to know that I've received word from Miss Cosette Sara in Tokyo." Casually, he removed a postcard from the breast of his uniform. "Would you like to hear?"

Excel nodded.

After sipping his wine again, Ilpalazzo read: "'Dearest Lord Ilpalazzo.'" He stopped to laugh. "Such a formal girl!—'Thank you for the letter of the eighteenth. I have quite recovered, although I was the cause of some concern at the hospital when I attempted to slay Doctor Takano with my hairpin. Since then I have been removed to a different ward. I am now in the company of other children who, like myself, experienced trauma at an early age, and subsequently exhibit homicidal behavior. The doctors are trying to cure us through a program of fresh air, exercise, and arts & crafts. The other day I received a very nice compliment from Nurse Kusaka on my macaroni collage of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian. I don't know I feel about 'recovery,' but I suppose it might be pleasant if, tomorrow, I could look at a kitten without imagining the way its blood would spill from its severed throat.'

'Your truly,

'Cosette.'

"A happy ending. Wouldn't you agree?"

Excel nodded.

"Yes," he repeated, reflectively, tapping the postcard on the table. "A very happy ending."

Excel sipped her milk. "So. What about us?"

"That remains to be seen." He stood. Menchi leapt out of his arms, and took once again to the corner. "Now. When it comes to you – and _us_ – I have a few unanswered questions. So before this tale of bloody revenge reaches its climax, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to tell me the truth.

"But therein lies the dilemma!—For, when it comes to the subject of you, I believe you to be _truly and utterly_ incapable of telling the truth – especially to me, and – least of all to yourself.

"And, when it comes to the subject of me, I am – _truly and utterly_ incapable – of believing anything you say."

"How do you purpose we solve this dilemma?" Excel said dully.

"Well!—It just so happens, I have a solution."

With a flourish, he produced a gun – _treachery_! flashed through her mind – and fired. Instead of a bang, through, there was a quiet pop, and she stared at the four-inch hypodermic dart protruding from her arm. There was only a slight itch of pain, followed by a more unpleasant draining sensation.

She sputtered. "W-what – did you just _shoot_ me with!"

"My greatest invention," he said, replacing the gun inside a cabinet. "Or at least, my favorite. I call it the Undisputed Truth. Twice as effective as sodium pentathol, without – any of those messy side-effects. Except you may perhaps experience—" he waved his hand airily—"a slight wave of euphoria?"

"Euphoria?" she gasped. "—_No_."

"Mm." Ilpalazzo smiled again. "That's a shame.—Don't touch it! It's already begun to set in. You'll only make it sting."

With a grimace, she put her hands on the table. "Fine."

She expected a sadistic smile, but as he returned to the table, his expression was grave. He sat with his hands laced in front of him. "I imagine you may have one or two questions of your own. After I've asked mine," he said, "I'll allow you to ask yours."

She nodded.

"So…" He nudged his glasses. "My first question."

"Is it true that you love me?"

There was no need to resist the serum. She nodded. "Yes."

Something that was not quite a smile, or a frown, contorted his mouth. He still didn't look at her. "And did you believe – honestly, in your heart of hearts, did you believe – that I could ever love you in return?"

There was a long silence. Menchi, who had always seemed, uncannily, as if she understood human language, sat with her head bowed.

Excel made an effort to hold the word in. Finally, though, the serum won out over even her incredible will, and she stuttered: "N-n-_no_."

The first tear rolled down her cheek. Ilpalazzo watched it dispassionately.

"That was the warm-up round," he said quietly. "Now. The one million yen question."

Excel sat with her eyes clamped shut; a second tear joined the first.

"When you came to the desert fortress, on that day four years ago. You knew that I had ordered your death. Did you not?"

"Y-yes."

"And yet you came anyway. Why?"

"B-b-because." Her head sank lower, as if she wanted to slide under the table. "B-because love and loyalty are the s-same to me."

"That's a poor answer," he snapped. "I don't understand you. How could you be so perverse?"

She was silent.

He glanced again at the window. Outside, the leaves of the palms showed soft and bright, like metal. "You don't have as much sense as a dog does." Menchi, in the corner, pricked up her ears, and he looked at her. "You saw the way she cowered away from you.—She loves me because I feed her. But if I were to kick her, she'd be afraid of me. Isn't it true?"

Excel shrugged.

"Poor girl. You must be severely deluded. What – tell me, _what_ – do you see in _me_ to love?"

The question startled her out of her tears. It was something – like Menchi's presence in the dim-lit kitchen, like the kitchen itself – she had never expected.

"I-Ilpalazzo?"

He spread his hands. "Look at me," he said, and bitterness had begun to creep into his level voice. "The most wretched tin-pot dictator on the globe is not so wretched as I – because they, at least, aspired to nothing more than power. They are dogs; my shame is far worse. Here I sit, a fool, a dreamer; the conqueror conquered by his own ambition." He looked at her. "So, Excel-_kun_. Can you look at me, even now, and still tell me that you _love_ me?"

She shook her head. "I don't c-care about that. But—"

"Yes?"

"But – _why_?" She gestured at the gun on the table. "Why'd you _do_ it?"

He shrugged. "I shot to kill. That's the way of the conqueror: eliminate deadwood. I knew full well what I was doing; I'm afraid I can't beg off any such simple grounds. What I didn't know – Excel-_kun_ – was what I had done to myself."

She waited.

"I felt – strange. And slowly, over the months to come, I began to realize my folly; but it was too late. ACROSS had already risen as an evil power, and I hadn't the strength to set it on its proper rails again. I hadn't the strength because – the only person for whose sake I might have reformed, I assumed was dead.

"It was then that I learned that certain things – once done, can never be undone," he finished, with a tired smile.

Excel's amazed had cleared her tears, and now she was in danger of succumbing to it instead. She sputtered: "For – _me_?—You would have—?"

"When I heard you had appeared again," he went on, looking at the table, "I knew that my hour had come. The vengeance of the gods – or God, if you prefer – had found me at last. I was serene. A fitting end for a tyrant, to be cut down by the one he had first wronged. And I knew that if you had ever loved me, you could feel nothing for me now but hatred.

"And now. You're here in front of me – and not _only_ have you failed to kill me, but you say you still _love_ me."

He laughed, and not happily.

"Lord Ilpalazzo."

"I know that Nabeshin taught you the Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique. You know what you have to do."

Slowly, horror spreading over her face, she shook her head.

"Agent Excel! I order you to kill me."

She shook her head.

"Kill me."

She looked at her hands. There was a long silence.

"You know," she finally said, in a strangled voice. "If I had to make a list – five years ago – of impossible things that would never happen…_you_, performing the coup-de-grace on _me_, by busting a bullet in my bust…would've been right at the top." She looked up. "I would've been wrong. Wouldn't?"

"Oh.—I'm sorry; was that a question? Yes, on the subject of impossible things that could never happen – I'm afraid you would have been wrong. Excel-_kun_."

She leaned forward and kissed him.

He was too startled to pull away; and his hands remained motionless on table. She put her hands behind his head and gently, deferentially rubbed her lips over his. When it came to impossible things that would never happen, she reflected, this would have been second on the list.

There was no erotic shock or outbreak of choral singing; only the strange, tart flavor of the wine on his lips; but she hardly felt like breaking off. He made an attempt to draw back, muttering some last futile protest – but she followed, planting her timid kisses; and finally he put his arms around her in surrender. Their chairs had gradually shifted until they sat side-by-side.

Menchi, the soul of discretion, padded quietly out of the room.

With his arms around her, Excel felt an incongruous happiness – not because she was in his arms, but because she had spared Cosette and climbed out of a pit, and because the night was cool and the moon was round, and because she was her and he was him and he was her…

_Because_, she thought deliriously. _Because_.


	13. Appendices

Today's Experiment………………………………………………..you decide.

* * *

**Appendices**

I. The Full _Malaguena Salerosa_,

(with translation courtesy of slightly edited for coherence by me)

and (as if it weren't obvious) the Cast

_Que bonitos ojos tienes_

What pretty eyes you have_  
Debajo de esas dos cejas;_

Under those two eyebrows;_  
Debajo de esas dos cejas  
Que bonitos ojos tienes…_

**Hyatt _as_ Vernita Green**

**"E.E" _as_ Nikki**

**Watanabe _as _Doctor Bell**

_Ellos me quieren mirar,_

They want me to look,  
_Pero si tu no los dejas;_

But you won't let me;_  
Pero si tu no los dejas_  
_Ni siquiera parpadear…_

Not even for a flashing instant…

**Doctor Kozo Shioji (or is _Gozo_? or even _Gojo_?) _as_ Hattori Hanzo**

**Yuki-chan as Bald Guy**

**VE-6050 Pfadfinderin _as_ Hanzo Sword/Pussy Wagon**

_Malaguena – salerosa!_

Rose leaves of Malaga!  
_Besar tus labios quisiera;_  
_Besar tus labios quisiera!_  
Oh, to kiss your wanted lips !

**Kabapu _as_ himself**

**Misaki _as_ herself**

_Malaguena salerosa…_  
_Y decirte…nina hermosa…_

And to tell you, beautiful girl…

**Ichiro Murasaki _as_ Boss Tanaka**

**Kazuo Kiriyama _as_ himself**

**Miki _as_ himself**

**Charlie Brown _as_ himself**

_Que eres li-_in_……da y hechicera,_

That you are pretty and magical,  
_Que eres linda y hechicera,  
Como el candor de una rosa._

As the innocence of a rose.

**Cosette Sara as O-Ren Ishii/Gogo Yubari/Sophie Fatale**

**(don't worry, she got paid triple)**

_Si por pobre me desprecias_,

If in poverty you despise me,  
_Yo te concedo razon_;

I offer you my heart;

**That Man _as_ Bill, in That One Scene**

_Yo te concedo razon  
Si por pobre me desprecias…_

**Key _as_ Budd**

**Puchuu _as _Ernie (the Midget)**

**Iwata _as_ Diner Guy**

**Sumiyoshi _as _Himself**

_Yo no te ofrezco riquezas,_

I do not offer you riches,_  
Te ofrezco mi corazon;_

I offer you my heart;_  
Te ofrezco mi corazon_

I offer you my heart_  
A cambio de mi pobreza…_

In exchange for my poverty…

**Nabeshin _as_ Pai Mei**

**Hyatt _as_ Elle Driver**

**Ropponmatsu II _as_ herself**

**Ropponmatsu I _as_ herself**_  
_  
_Malaguena – salerosa!_  
_Besar tus labios quisiera;  
Besar tus labios quisiera!  
Malaguena salerosa…_

_  
_**Menchi _as _B.B.**

**Lord Ilpalazzo _as_ Bill**

_Y decirte…nina hermosa…_

**Excel Excel _as_ Beatrix Kiddo**

_Que eres li-_in_……da y hechicera,_  
_Que eres linda y hechicera  
Como el candor de una rosa!  
Y decirte…nina hermosa…_

**"Death Rides a Bicycle"**

**by Incanto, 2005**

(Now imagine Ropponmatsu II singing _Goodnight Moon_.)

* * *

II. Apologia

Apologies to those responsible for making all of these things, which were parodied or referenced in some way:

Kill Bill

Excel Saga

Doctor Strangelove (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb)

Reservoir Dogs

Disgaea: Hour of Darkness

Hamlet

The Holy Bible

The Aviator

Battle Royale

Neon Genesis Evangelion

The Ring

Also:

Charles Bukowski, Emily Dickinson, Yukio Mishima, T.S Eliot, The Doors and Shakespeare (again)

Finally, I just remembered I read about Kobe's Yama Vocational High School in an old book about Japanese high schools, so for all I know it still exists…

* * *

III. What the Deal Was with that Preview for Chapter Six

That was an old _Dos Equis_ commercial. "_Uno, dos_…oh hell, let's just stop with _dos_!"—Jesus Christ, the stuff that sticks with you.

* * *

IV. Deleted Scene: The Power of Giant Robots

COSETTE: You squashed K-kun!

EXCEL: Well, yeah, that was kinda the idea…

COSETTE: _You squashed K-kun_!

EXCEL: That's the power of love!

COSETTE: _Baka_! You didn't defeat him with the power of _love_! You _squashed_ him with a giant _robot_!

EXCEL: Hey, same thing, right?

* * *

V. Minor Notes

I always thought Excel Saga took place in the northerly city of Fukushima (F city, F prefecture) but now I find out it takes place in Fukuoka, which is in southern Japan. So it doesn't really make sense that Ilpalazzo conquered _northern_ Japan and Hokkaido…eh, well. It's just fanfic.

Of course, since everyone is supposed to be speaking Japanese, it doesn't really make sense that Key is quoting western poets…

Shouldn't Excel recognize Ropponmatsu II from 'Take Back Love?' (it would be funny if she had seen her and shrieked _rapist_!)

If four years have passed, and everyone seems to have grown up, shouldn't Cosette be twelve?

How can Pedro be alive if the timeline changed, and he didn't defeat That Man?

How come Shioji's assistant's name changed from Yumiko to Yuki? Well, there _is_ a good answer to that! Of course, being a pervert with a heart of gold, Shioji eventually returned Yumiko to her family, with absolutely no harm (if you don't count a few odd memories which she might one day recount to a therapist) done!

If you want a laugh, go to a site which finds hotels and do a search in Fukuoka. Even if you already know about this, it's pretty amusing to see it all in front of you.

* * *

VI. Final Author's Note

Sometime not too long ago, I happened across a random livejournal and read about something a guy had done at his college: he'd hosted a Valentine's Day event he called Love & War, where he screened Kill Bill vol. 2 and The Notebook. My first thought was, _Cool idea; Kill Bill is a great romantic movie. But I didn't realize The Notebook was so violent_.

The theme in here is still more Excel Saga than Kill Bill, but I like to think that reading Kill Bill as a love story isn't totally out of bounds, either. Would I take a date to see it? Well, however this might bode for my romantic future, it reminds of something Tarantino himself said about another movie: "When I'm getting serious about a girl, I show her Rio Bravo, and _she'd better like it_."

I enjoyed writing Death Rides a Bicycle; it was a fun break from more serious work, and the first episodic fanfiction I'd written in _years_. Seriously. Compare it to my other stuff on this site. Or better yet, _don't_, because I think you and I would both be happier if mortals never set eyes on that stuff again. Anyway, my only regret is that I couldn't figure out a way to cast Ropponmatsu II as Gogo.

If you liked it, I'm glad; if you didn't, I'm sorry…and if you liked most of it expect for that one part, I totally meant to do it a different way, seriously.

No, seriously. Thanks, readers. Thanks, thanks, readers.

Love & Peace,

Incanto

* * *

"Hello. Yes, I would like a delivery to be made. Hm, _yes_. The "German Deluxe" Pizza tickles my fancy…_what_? _My_ address? _My_ phone number? I HAVE NO TONGUE THAT COULD UTTER SUCH TO ONE AS MENIAL AS YOU!"

—Ilpalazzo (from the manga)

* * *

ESTEBAN: You know, if we had met back when I was in business, you would have been my _number one_ lady.

BEATRIX: Well, I'm…flattered.

ESTEBAN: You damn well better be!

* * *

EXCEL: I'm gonna hit you!

ROPPONMATSU II: Don't say that _after_ you hit me!


End file.
